


Through his Soul

by Capsherlocked (Labracadabrador)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Blood, Esperanto, Gen, Night Vale, Sam/Lucifer Big Bang Challenge 2014, Season/Series 04, Solresol, Somewhat Evil!Sam, Swearing, angel possession, powers!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 22:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 136,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2324672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Labracadabrador/pseuds/Capsherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know enough to realise that the angels have plans for you two. Important plans. And if there is one thing I know for certain about angels, it’s that the humans they have plans for don’t turn out that well.”</p><p>Sam has nothing to live for - his brother’s in Hell, he’s cut off all contact with Bobby, and none of the demons are dealing. But then one morning at a foggy crossroads, he learns that there is someone who’s both able and willing to consider his offer. </p><p>And no matter how much Lucifer hates humanity, if the apocalypse is God’s will, he’s damn well going to fight it. He’s not going to be some pawn in a heavenly plan. Which means nobody can know that he used his vessel’s body to slip through the cracks back into Creation.</p><p>So now Dean’s been raised from Hell, and nobody knows who did it; Sam can’t remember his deal and keeps blacking out with a strange voice present in his head; Castiel has lost the Righteous Man, Heaven believes it has a traitor in its ranks; and southern Wyoming becomes the site of skirmishes, then battlefields, then massacres as the war in Hell spills across the boundaries to Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the Samifer Big Bang 2014. Huge thank you to MrsDoomAndGloom, my artist, and ChaosMidge, my beta. Couldn't have made it without you guys.
> 
> http://ms-doomandgloom.livejournal.com/1254.html is the link to the art masterpost.

Sam yanked Ruby’s knife out of the meatsuit’s hand with a wet squelch and stabbed the demon in the ribcage. It was still grinning when the body keeled over onto the grass, hideously dead, and Sam could swear he saw a maggot fall out of one ear. He didn’t take a closer look.

“Dammit…” This was the second one he’d summoned, and the second one he’d killed. Unnamed, but they always knew who he was. Why? Mind-reading, or was it something else? “Stupid alcohol. Stop making it hard to th- to thiiirnnnk.” He was slurring his words. His head was pounding. He needed water and rest.

Following instinct ingrained into him by years of hunting things that went bump in the night, Sam stumbled into the Impala. He was sick out the window, wiped the chunks of vomit around his lips on the grass, curled up in the back seat, and slept.

Sleep. Everything else would come later, and for gods’ sake he would crash the car if he tried driving in this state, and then he’d have officially ruined everything.

Sam woke up to the sound of chirping songbirds and a headache that he swore shot down his spinal chord. Headaches were not supposed to do that. He badly needed a drink, not alcohol, just water. His tongue felt gritty and swollen, and Sam wondered if he’d bitten it in the night because his mouth had the tangy metallic taste of human blood.

And how sad and utterly pathetic was the fact that he had actually gotten to the point where he felt the need to internally qualify that with “human”? And, more to the point, that his taste buds were able to do so? Just evidence of his distorted freak of a life.

Luckily, there were bottles down by his feet, and though some had been there a dubiously long while, Sam wasn’t going to worry about water-borne infections. Hell, if he was destined to get ill and die from drinking six-month-old mineral water, then maybe the universe was just actively trying to laugh at him. Maybe not.

It should have been like nectar to his parched throat. That’s what they say in all the storybooks, but in reality he could barely swallow the first mouthful and then spluttered the second all over the dirt outside. Then he was sick again.

Hey, at least the taste of vomit got the taste of blood out his mouth.

But half an hour later Sam felt more like Sam, and so he dug up the box from the middle of the crossroads, shoved it across the back seat, and set off who-knows-where to find another. Crossroads, that is.

Just because two of the blood-eyes wouldn’t deal, doesn’t mean that nobody would. Sam held onto that thought for dear life.

 

 

 

  
* * *

It was noon, and the sun was high in the sky when he parked the Impala in a field next to two dusty tracks. The light made everything seem sharper, somehow. Like what he was doing was more deliberate. It reassured him. A little.

He buried the box and called out - sure enough, a different one answered his call. A woman, this time; from the looks of it Asian. It didn’t show in the accent.

“Well, well, well. Samuel Winchester. Third time lucky, is it?”

“You know what I want, and what I’m offering. Are you gonna deal or not?” Sam stepped forward. The demon stepped back. Evidently this one was valuing its life.

“Oooh. You know, it’s tempting. I’m soooo tempted, I am.” She flicked her hair and her eyes flashed red. “But no deal, honey.”

“Why the fu- why the hell not? It’s a straight deal. Is it beyond your power or something? Puny little crossroads demons get tied up in red tape?  _Christo_.”

She winced and glared.

“Don’t do that. Shut up. Of course we can raise your brother. Don’t even have to snatch him back from the reapers; he’s already right with us. But nobody’s gonna deal with you, Sam. Executive orders.”

“Whose?” She smiled and shrugged, looking all the while like fangs wouldn’t be that out of place.

“Not allowed to say. Again, executive orders. But no demon is allowed to make any kind of deal or binding contract with Samuel Winchester unless they want some serious smiting down the line, so don’t hold out hope crossroads number four will give you any better results.”

“What?” Sam was confused. “Any type of binding contract? Like, I could sell my soul for an ice cream and you couldn’t accept?”

“We-ell, I could. But collecting would be out of the question, so there’s no point in it.”

“This isn’t about keeping my brother in hell. You’re saying if I managed to get somebody else to sell out for me, it’s possible to raise Dean?” God, he was considering it. He was honestly considering it.

The demon laughed, though it was more of a cackle. Or the screech of a fork on a china plate.

“Oh, joining the dark side now are we? Ooh, your brother would be so hurt! But nope, sorry. Dean stays in hell. Two things at work here: One, no making contracts with Sam Winchester. Two, no interference with the contract made by Dean Winchester. Orders given by different people, for different reasons, but hey.” She shrugged. “All roads lead to crossroads, and this particular setup was set up by a guy so high on the food chain he’d burn my eyes out if I saw him. So just give up. You can’t fight fate.”

“Wait!” The demon had turned to leave, but she paused. “So just confirm - you guys  _can_  raise souls from hell, you just don’t want to?”

“Some of us can. Most can’t, but yeah, some. Alistair’s probably the one to talk to in your case, but he doesn’t do crossroads.” Alistair. Right. Sam made a mental note to go look up the name in Bobby’s collections. Sounded demonic enough.

“How did you know my name?” ‘Can you read my mind?’ If she could, the demon didn’t show any sign of it.

“Are you kidding? You practically buried your life story in that box. Everyone who makes crossroads deals does. In your case, though, I don’t need that. I know your face.”

“We’ve met before? I don’t recall having the pleasure.” Sarcasm dripped off his words.

“Hah! No. Sam, every demon in Hell and elsewhere knows your face. It’s seared into our minds from the moment our souls corrupt. Always has been, likely always will be. Your reputation will follow you everywhere.”

“Why?” At this, the smile slipped off the demon’s face. Her eyes gained a haunting look that was creepier even than the red.

“Because you, Sam Winchester, are the man who will end the world and save us all.” She turned again to leave.

“Wait!” But it was too late; she was gone. Sam was left standing alone in the bright light of day near a freshly dug pile of dirt, and wondering what the Hell had just happened.

 

 

 

  
* * *

“Alistair, huh?” Gaelic name, original spelling of Alexander. Common enough, in the UK at least, that any google searches were going to be useless among the pile of junk that was the internet. “Stupid dumb machine…”

He could go to Bobby’s place but to be honest, they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Sam didn’t want to go back just yet, which meant plan B was in action.

Well, it was more the original plan A - summon more crossroads demons and hope he can find one game enough to take the deal. Only this time, the plan had been refined. A bit.

“Right, so if I take the picture and those letters out of the box…” Sam had no idea why he was talking to himself, but in terms of what he’d been though it registered so low on the crazy scale he was willing to let it slide, “And wear sunglasses. Plus a hood. May as well go the full way and get a balaclava. Then find another crossroads, try number four. If I can make the deal binding before it realises what’s up…” From all Sam’s experiences, demons - at least the lesser ones - couldn’t back out on deals once they’d made them. Just like the human couldn’t. So if he, an anonymous person, dealt his anonymous soul for one anonymous resurrection from Hell, then they might take it. Reveal who he is and who he wants and boom, they’re stuck raising Dean. If he was super lucky they might decide not to collect for whatever reason was keeping them from dealing with him and he might be allowed to stay with his brother.

Hey, it was a long shot, but Sam had always had a soft spot for long shots. They tended to either pull through spectacularly or make things worse, but they never did fizzle or flop out. Funny, that. Like his life was the subject of a book - excellent story, but nobody considered that he, y’know, surely didn’t appreciate being chucked around like a 2D character.

Fast forward six hours, and the sun was just beginning to set. Sam was all dressed up, his hidden face practically screaming “Up to no good!”, burying a box sans picture in the middle of yet another crossroads. Around it was drawn a devil’s trap using charcoal, hopefully not noticeable enough until the demon was well and truly caught in it.

“Alright, where are you? Show yourself!”

“Aww man…” Some guy stepped out from behind a tree. “Just my luck. Thrown under the bus. Nobody cares about the janitor, do they…”

Sam took two steps back; the person two steps forward, and then he was caught in the devil’s trap and scowling angrily at the ground.

“Right. So I’m going to ask you some questions, and then we are going to make a deal. You refuse, and I exorcise your ass back to hell. Capish?”

“Ugh, fine… I’m not _technically_ a crossroads demon, you know.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Some rumor’s going round about a person summoning crossroads demons and then ganking them off somehow, so the girl who was supposed to come yanked me out here instead. I still do deals, though, so don’t start with the exorcism just yet. Would prefer not to be under terrible pain, thanks.”

“Sure. I can work with that. First question: who, or what I guess, is Alistair?”

The guy snorted. “Wow, somebody hasn’t done his research. Alistair’s the top torturer in Hell. Never met him in person; hopefully never will, but he’s kind of a household name around our parts. I’ve heard he’s working on some special project recently, but I’m not exactly in the sphere of need-to-know. That enough for you?”

“No, but I’ll let that slide. So, a deal. It’s straight up simple. I want a soul out of Hell, and in return I’m going to offer up my own. I don’t want ten years, I just want ten minutes so I can check the guy you raised is okay.”

“Oh. Well… problem.” The demon suddenly looked antsy. “You know I said I’m not a big ol’ crossroads demon? I’m, like, the clean-up guy for the seventh circle of hell. Mopping up all the drips of blood and pus. About the lowest of the low, though it beats being a soul on the rack.”

Sam gritted his teeth.

“You’re saying you can’t do it, can you? The one stupid time I picked a crossroads demon to summon anonymously and I don’t even get the real deal, that’s what you say? My life hates me.”

“Yeah, mine hates me too. I’m about the lowest of the low in Hell. Like, metaphorically and literally, that’s how bad it is. So who the crap are you that life hates you so much, anyway?” His eyes went wide and suddenly bright red as Sam, shrugging, removed the hood and balaclava. “Oh my g- oh heck, I didn’t mean… damn. Let me go!” He began to struggle.

“No.” Pathetic or not, demons were demons, and he had a demon-killing knife, and he didn’t particularly feel like being merciful at this moment in time.

“Come on? Please just scuff the trap, I’ll go back I swear! Sam, don’t do this, I won’t tell anyone you’re the one who killed Relaiph or Fiona, I’m not gonna snitch. Please, don’t do the exorsi-” He broke off, staring in horror at the knife Sam had brought out. “Oh no. Nonononono.”

“Yes.” Sam knew he shouldn’t be taking pleasure in this but Hell, it was fun to see a demon grovel.

“I’ll put in a good word! I’ll, I’ll even make sure you get a real crossroads demon next time. Please don’t… Don't! Stop, I know a guy!”

The knife stopped its slow descent.

“You know a guy?”

“Um, yeah, well, not exactly know but I know of him, I mean everyone does. No wait, don’t-”

“Well, stop rambling.  _Christo_.” The demon blinked and winced.

“Agh! Okay, okay. Sam Winchester, there is only one person in Hell who would make a deal with you to get your brother out. It is your brother, right?”

“Yes, you got that right. You say this guy would make a deal with me?”

“Probably.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe you. I have info that says that’s not gonna be the case. Bye-bye.”

“No! I know demons can’t make deals with you, everyone knows that, but this guy’s an exception. He’s an… urk.” The demon clutched his throat. “Heck, the spell they’ve got on us is freaking strong, I can’t even say the word. But he’s not your average demon. The laws don’t apply.”

Sam slowly stowed the knife back in his pocket. Bingo.

“So you think this guy would deal, huh? He sounds like a big shot. From what I get les grands fromages down in Hell want Dean right where he is. Why not him, then? And does he have a name?”

“I’d tell you the name, but I think my throat might constrict so hard my head falls off. Yeah, he’ll deal. Doesn’t answer to the big shots. Might even not want your soul, would just want consent for a couple of stuff. You up for it?”

“How do I summon him then, if I don’t have the name?”

Laughter. It still sounded human, so obviously the meatsuit wasn’t rotting too badly yet.

“Aw, if it was as easy as summoning him someone would have worked out how to do it a long time ago. You have to go to him. He lives just under the seventh circle. A crack in the door appeared two weeks ago so you could probably slip through. I don’t think anyone else has noticed yet, but I'm a little more _observant_ than the rest of them."

“Can I just check - you are asking me to walk into hell, like actual literal Hell, while I’m still alive, to talk to some guy I know nothing about who might or might not be able to save my brother, going on only your world that I won’t get crispy-fried or eaten, without even a binding contract so I have no idea if you’re telling the truth?”

“When you put it like that-”

“Hell, I’ve risked more for less. When do we go?”

The demon looked down to the floor, inspecting the trap.

“Well, now if you like. It’s not like he’s going to be busy with other engagements. Crossroads demons get a quick way back to where they last were in Hell when they get summoned, and I can probably take you along. Just scuff the trap and we’ll be off.”

“…Do I have to kiss you?”

“Nah. Well, if you wanted it to feel more authentic, sure. I haven’t had any action in a long time, so I’m game.”

Sam actually considered it. For, like, half a second. “I’m good, thanks. That was a negative, by the way. Something would have to be seriously wrong with me if I started kissing demons for the hell of it.”

“…I just realised, since you were planning an anonymous deal, you’d have had to take your scarf thing off to seal it. And then we would have recognised you. Hey, Sam, you really did not think this through. Your breath still stinks of alcohol.”

“Yeah, well, shut up.” Sam reached his foot out and dragged it across a line of the devil’s trap. The demon grabbed him, something twisted in his gut, and the world went black.

 

 

 

  
* * *

Sam came back to awareness to a heavy dripping sound, like diesel falling into a lake of water.He opened his eyes and shut them almost immediately, the acrid sting of the air already bringing tears of irritation to them. Every breath he took made something chafe in the back of his throat, something he wasn’t ever aware of feeling before.

“So this is Hell, huh? I’d expected… hotter.” It was the temperature of a cloudy autumn night - not chilly, but certainly not hot either, and the air was heavy with acidic water vapour and the rotten egg smell of sulfur. “You sure we’re in the right place?” His words echoed, joining the slurry of background sounds that was suspiciously like screams.

“Yeah. Heat rises and we’re way down on level seven. Only the Cage is below us.”

Sam blinked the water out of his stinging eyes and looked around. They were on a ledge cut into the side of a massive cliff. Looking up, he couldn’t see the sky, just black gloom after however many feet. The place wasn’t lit by torches or lanterns, but somehow there was the barest of light available to see. Below he could see the cliff wall - it wasn’t completely vertical, just a very steep slope.To the sides, more cliff and more ledge, and Sam realised with a jolt that the sides were curling around, presumably to meet up somewhere far ahead of him. It wasn’t a cliff as much as the inside of a borehole. Like a giant cone had been driven into the ground and then removed.

“Come on, there are stairs this way. We don’t want to linger here; you can probably already feel your soul tarnishing in the air.” Sam knew instinctively that that was what the lump at the back of his throat was.

He started walking, following the demon along the ledge, when something wet and slimy and the colour of blood dropped onto the stone in front of him with a plop.

“Ewww…” It had splashed him, and Sam now had what he suspected was brain fluid on his clothes. “Where did that come from?” Looking up he couldn’t see much. There were spiralling stairs cut into the rock, but even with his eyes adjusted to the gloom he couldn’t see much further than a hundred feet up. The demon stopped, bent down, and sniffed the muck.

“Human. Probably some guy on the rack in Circle three. Nobody related to you, if that’s what you were wondering.” He scraped it off the path with his shoe and flicked it into the void where Sam watched it sink out of sight into the darkness - there was something down there, but it was black among shadows and he couldn’t see what it was.

“Why is there nobody down here?” Sam asked as he followed the demon towards what he could now see was a set of treacherous looking steps, slabs jammed into the rock. “I thought Hell would be crawling with demons.”

“Yeah, it is. Up there.” The demon thumbed up in the general direction of the not-really-sky. “Nobody ever wants to come down here; most don’t ever want to have to go through Circle six. The only ones are the lowest of the low. That’s me, about three others I do cleaning shifts with, and the guy who visits once a month to shout at us and demand we work harder.”

“You clean?”

“Yeah. Stuff is always dripping down from three and six, sometimes five if one of the demons up there decides it’s funny to chuck rubbish down the walls instead of in the pit. I once got hit on the head by a stone I swear was all the way from Circle one. My job is to keep the path down here usable by sludging that stuff off the stairway and into the big old incinerator down the bottom. Come on, we have to go down.” The demon looked round. “Sam?”

“My brother’s up that way, isn’t he?” Sam stared up the steps that spiralled around into the darkness.

“Yes. But we can’t go up there. Anyone sees us and it’s game over. We have to go down.” The demon took one step, then two, and then he was practically skipping along the jabbed in slabs like he’d been doing this for eons. He probably had. Sam followed at a far more cautious pace.

The walls were sticky, coated with a thin film of bloody slime Sam could tell by the smell came from both human and demon. He traced a finger through the muck to see what was beneath - because there was only so much ickiness you could be subjected to at once before you stopped caring.

“Is this diamond?”

“Moissanite, actually. Though there are patches of diamond and emerald around, and other precious stones too. Hurry up.”

Sam kept tracing the wall, incredulous. It felt like cold glass but far harder, decked with ridges and whorls like it had been melted by a nuclear bomb. Once again, he considered the shape of the place. Not a borehole… a crater, with edges turned to gemstone by the meteor that had burned it through. But then what was down at the very bottom of Hell?

“Come on, hurry. The Cage is not too far from here.”

Sam hopped across the stone slabs, heading down all the time, thanking his brain for not giving him a fear of heights. It was a dizzying drop, and looking up was just as disorientating, if not more so.

“What’s the Cage?”

“It’s where He lives. See, there.” The demon pointed, and Sam squinted. Black among shadows, and he could barely see. It was right at the very bottom of the pit, where the sloping walls flattened out somewhat and the cone tapered to a point. Spherical, and blacker than pitch. Twenty feet across, or less. It was hard to estimate size, because the very space around it seemed to warp and bend. If black holes existed, this was what he’d expect one to look like.

“Looks pretty small to me. What’s it like inside?”

“Nobody knows.”

“What, this guy hates visitors? Remind me why the heck I’m turning up on his doorstep?”

“Oh, he’ll always talk to you, Sam Winchester.” Something about those words sounded ominous, but maybe it was just the whole I’m-in-hell-and-a-demon-is-talking-to-me vibe getting through.

“Doesn’t answer the question. Why does nobody know what the inside of the Cage is like?”

“Oh, demons cannot enter, and neither can any other supernatural creature. If you attempt to cross the event horizon, you will perish in a wall of fire. It’s how we dispose of rubbish here in Hell.”

“What, seriously?” The whole pit was nothing more than a glorified trash chute leading to some macro demon’s house? “That officially takes the cake for weirdest thing I have heard this month.”

They hopped along some more, and the Cage came more into view. It was perfectly spherical, and perfectly black… except…

“Is that… a crack?”

“Yes.”

There was a crack in the Cage. Sam still wasn’t quite clear what the Cage was, but he could practically hear the pronounced capital C, so it had to be important. Which meant a crack was probably not good. It was about a metre square, though a little taller than it was wide, and took the rough shape of a five-pointed star. Again, seeing as pentagrams were rather demonic in nature, probably not good.

“It appeared three weeks ago, in earth time. The first seal has been broken.”

“So, are you saying I can get through?”

“…I believe so. Five years ago, or two weeks by earth time, a lesser demon attempted it, and was vaporised. But you’re special.” The demon stopped. The steps had finished and now there was only three feet or so between the orb and the end of the spiralling path. The air felt charged with electricity, and it made Sam’s hair begin to stick up.

“You have no confirmation, then.”

“Do you want to save your brother?” True, that. Sam carefully edged past the demon, hopefully not falling off.

“…What’s your name? I never caught it.”

“Oh, my name. It’s Crowley.”

“Not a bad name, I guess. For a demon.” Sam was now just above the crack. If he jumped, he would hit it. He steadied himself.

“I’m glad you think so. Goodbye.”

Sam could practically hear the smirk in that voice, but before he could turn around to ask what was so funny he felt Crowley shove him hard in the back. He just had time to think  _son of a bitch!_  before he lost balance and fell into the crack in the Cage.

There was a bright flash of  _freezing cold_  and he saw stars, then nothing.


	2. The Cage

Sam came to awareness in darkness, in silence, without any sense of his hands or legs or feet, without any sense of anything. He could not move his muscles to breathe; he could not hear himself breathing. There were only his thoughts.

_Am I dead?_

Death was peaceful, if this was death. Sam had always believed he was destined for Hell, sinner that he was. At this, memories began to drift back to him.

_I’m in the Cage… In Hell…_

He was alone. Without a body he could not flail, couldn’t struggle, couldn’t even release stress hormones to work his brain into a state of agitation. He was calm.

Sam had no idea how long he had been in the Cage. After counting twice to ten thousand, and losing the count each time, he made it all the way to half a million before he got bored and gave up. Count or no count, it was all the same blackness, with no time to measure one count against. He didn’t remember how long a second was.

There were more interesting things to do. To remember. To daydream. Sam remembers - remembered, will remember? Time and tense merge together here. Sam remembered days of hunting with his best friend and brother, of battling monsters and evil, of being the hero and the villain’s accomplice. He dreamt of new adventures, Dean smiling and by his side as they forged their way through ghouls and demons alike, rescuing princesses from the clutches of dragons.

Did dragons exist? Sam couldn’t remember anymore. Probably. Everything else seemed to.

After time, though it was impossible to know how much, Sam came to the realisation that maybe it had all been a daydream. Maybe dragons were all in his head. It was weird. What colour were the scales of a dragon? He thought maybe green, or maybe pink.

What colour were the eyes of a demon? Were they red or black, or yellow or white? He had memories for all of them, but he didn’t know which ones were confabulations brought on by too much thinking and not enough seeing. Huh. He didn’t even know for sure whether or not demons existed.

There was a normal life, Sam was sure. There was law school and lazy summer afternoons watching fireflies at dusk. That was real, he knew. But ghosts and demons didn’t exist. They were just constructions of his mind, created to fill the blanks. Where was he? Dead, maybe. Or a coma. He would wake up in the hospital just as soon as he snapped out of this delusion.

And just as he thought that, a light appeared at the edge of his vision. It flashed once, twice. A signal. Sam tried to call out to it, but his voice still could not be found.

_Hello? Hello, is anyone there?_

His words echoed as if he had spoken them aloud and suddenly he felt an answering response, shock and an affirmative. The light flashed again and then grew brighter.

 _Who are-_  Sam cut off. The light was growing brighter still, and Sam realised that it was approaching with an impossibly fast acceleration. Heading straight for him, even though he could not locate himself in space.

Brighter still. Faster, faster. It had been so far away before but now it was almost upon him.

 _Help!_  Was all Sam could get out before the light hit him at speed, and there was a flash of alarm and freezing cold and pain - something he had not felt in so, so long.

 

 

  
* * *

Sam woke up next lying on a sofa that was either white or light grey, in a room lit badly enough that it was impossible to tell which. He spent the next minute - oh god, his sense of time had returned to him - revelling in the sensation of breathing again. In, out, in, out. All his muscles worked. His heart could be felt beating. Cupping a hand to his ear he could hear the blood rushing through his veins.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” The voice came from behind him. His own voice. Sam struggled to his feet and looked around.

Someone else was standing in the doorway - oh, the room had a doorway. They were glowing softly; their skin seemed to be shimmering as if reflecting a light that had no source.

Whoever it was, it wore his face. Sam’s own eyes stared back at him. Calm. Waiting.

“Who are you!” He tried to yell but his voice cracked halfway through. Swallowing, he tried again. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my Cage, Sam Winchester.” When it (Sam refused to call it a he, the thing was wearing his face, that was Supernatural Monster Sign 101) spoke, it spoke in Sam’s own voice, but there was an undertone of something else, something he would swear was music except he couldn’t pinpoint any of the notes.

“Yeah, helpful. Stop doing that. Don’t copy my face, it’s creepy.”

“This is my true form, Sam, as far as your mind is able to comprehend it. I am the original; you are merely a copy of me.”

“You still haven’t said who you are. Or where we are. Or what the hell you want with me. Leave me alone.”

“You wish to return to the darkness, Sam? I can wait.” The thing, whatever it was, lifted a hand. “Another month to you is naught but a flap of wings to me.”

“No! Don’t… don’t send me back there!” He’d been so close to losing his mind; he’d begun to forget about the monsters, to believe it was all just a bad dream. But no matter how much he wanted it to be true, he didn’t want to go mad.

“We are already there. The darkness exists around us and through us. I have recreated semblance of a physical reality to put you more at ease, but here no higher power than me has jurisdiction, and so I am ultimate God of this realm.”

“So what, this is all another hallucination? In my head? Not real?”

“It’s in my head, not yours. And whether it is real or not is an interesting question to ask. The reality you know is just a figment of God’s imagination. If you define reality to be the creation of a soul not your own, then yes, this is real.”

“…Trippy. And you’re sure that I’m not dreaming?”

“Seeing as you need reassurance, Sam, I would guess you are the unsure one.”

How the heck is a person even meant to respond to that? Sam didn’t know. He was too tired to deal with this shit right now.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to bed. Night.” He rolled over on the sofa pointedly and closed his eyes.

The world faded away around him.

“Stop it!” He shot up, gasping. The dull room was back, his body was back.  _It_ was staring at him, seemingly amused.

“Sleep will not help your fatigue, Sam. It is caused by your soul adapting to new surroundings - this physical world, and staying awake, is the best thing for you now.”

“Fuck.” He knew it was true, could tell that his eyelids were getting lighter with each minute that passed. “So who are you, then? You’re the demon Crowley said could save my brother, right?”

“I am the one he mentioned. For now, call me Luke.”

“Luke as in the guy who wrote the gospel? Doesn’t sound that demonic to me.”

“I’m not very demonic either.”

Sam laughed. You had to admit, it was true. Demons smelled of sulfur and poured black smoke everywhere. This one obviously had  _far_  more class than that.

“Alright; well, I’ll deal. Yes. Fine. Whatever you want.”

It - Luke, damn it Sam was going to have to start referring to it as a he now it had a name - raised an eyebrow. Literally. It looked slightly unnatural and Sam had to wonder if the biological workings of the human body were even the same here, because eyebrow muscles surely did not normally twitch up that far.

“I haven’t even laid out my terms. You realise by consenting now, you’ve lost all ability to negotiate?”

“I don’t fucking care. Get my brother out of Hell. Stick me there in his place if you want. Or kill me, or kill the whole world.”

“Well, since you put it so nicely, you’ve got yourself a Deal.” Luke stepped forward, and Sam drew himself up to a crosslegged sitting position on the sofa.

“Done.”

Luke bent down as if to kiss him, to seal the deal Sam supposed, and wouldn’t that be freaking weird as heck because then he’d be making out with  _himself_  - but he just touched two fingers to Sam’s forehead and vanished in a flash of light that made him blink.

And blink again, trying to get the afterimage out of his retina. It was like looking at the sun.

 

 

  
* * *

“Well, that was anticlimactic.” No response from the empty room. “I mean, I’m not burning in hellfire, so I guess that’s a perk. Where’d you go?”

“ _I’m right here._ ” The voice didn’t have a direction associated with it - it was like headphones, it seemed to be coming from within Sam’s own head, and he jumped a little. “ _I’m taping our souls together at the moment. Please stand by._ ”

“Yeah, this is weird as hell. Scratch that, weirder than Hell, even that place wasn’t as barmy as this. Tape? Really?”

_“Like I said before, your mind is not comprehending my true form very well, and that includes my voice. Your unconscious is putting words to what you perceive, and those are drawn from your own schema.”_

“So?”

“ _You were the one who came up with the tape analogy. Although I am a superset of you, so I suppose I did too. Here we go._ ” Sam suddenly felt like he had come down with the worst case of brain freeze ever, as a rush of cold settled over him. His blood felt like someone had replaced it with antifreeze and then turned down the thermostat about fifty notches.

“Aah! Oh god that’s cold-”

“ _This would have been easier if you’d been drinking demon blood but no…_ ” Sam cursed and then suddenly lost his balance as the sofa disappeared out from under him. No, scratch that, everything disappeared out from under him as the whole room fell away and he was left floating in the darkness, again, but his body still seemed to be here. “ _I think it’s time to show you the Cage, Sam Winchester._ ”

And then suddenly Sam was filled with the sensation that they were travelling very, very fast and when he looked behind him he could swear he saw a glowing trail. But he had no way to place speed and his sense of balance had just been shot to hell so he shut his eyes and rode it out until the spinning stopped and the world was still again.

“ _We’re here._ ”

 

 

  
* * *

Sam opened his eyes. Huh.

The sky was sort-of bluish white around them, stretching off in infinite directions and Sam was filled with a sudden fear at how much  _space_  there was. They were standing on some kind of invisible, or maybe glass, platform and in front of them hung a black sphere that seemed to reflect no light.

“That’s the Cage.”

“ _Yes. Or as accurate a perception as I am able to filter into your mind._ ”

“We’re not inside it?”

“ _Of course we are. Or maybe we aren’t. Maybe the Cage is what contains God’s Creation, and we were exiled rather than imprisoned_.”

“Are you talking bull, or is that really what happens?”

“ _Who knows? Humans cannot accurately perceive space. You assume that the Cage must have both an inside and an outside, rather than simply being a barrier between what is and what is not. It’s a limitation of your kind. For now think of it as a convex mirror, and we must cross through to our reflection_.”

“Okay. How? I really don’t think it’s called the Cage for nothing.”

“ _The first seal has already been broken. There is a crack. Although it was designed to restrain me it is weakened and you were able to squeeze through. If I bury my Grace far enough inside you I should be able to hide so it does not sense me crossing over._ ”

Sure enough, the same crack Sam had seen back in Hell (wow, it felt so long ago; how long had he been in here?) was etched into the Cage’s surface.

“Dive for the crack, right?”

“ _Fly for it. I will be able to get a better angle with a higher chance of success._ ”

“And the fact that I cannot fly says?”

“ _You’re my vessel. You have wings now; you can’t see them just yet but they are there. I will relinquish control immediately before we hit and hope to see you on the other side._ ”

“This is suicidal.”

“ _You jumping in here was suicidal, Sam. This is merely a calculated risk._ ” Sam walked closer, disconcerted by the way that he couldn’t see the floor, and peered at the jagged star in the Cage. His memory for sizes was a little faded but he could swear it was larger. “ _I agree. Someone must have broken another seal._ ”

“Is that good or bad?” Sam wasn’t quite up-to-date on how there could be more than one seal, or who Luke even was apart from some supernatural demon baddie he probably should not be teaming up with, but he let all that slide.

“ _Depends on your point of view. I would say good, as it gives us more leeway. I warn you; the Cage is the barrier to Creation. Once we cross over God’s rules will reassert themselves. Be wary, as I cannot protect you with certainty._ ”

“Psh. Like I need protecting.”

“ _You’re the weak link in the chain, Sam. Of course you need protection. I didn’t exactly get thrown in here under friendly terms, and once people figure out I’ve returned they’ll be hostile._ ”

“Why, then?”

“ _Why go back? Look around, Sam._ ” Sam did, but he didn’t see anything but empty blue void. “ _Exactly. There is nothing here for me._ ”

“Aren’t you this place’s god? Make something.”

“ _I have. I have created stars and planets and earths and plants and seas. Volcanoes and moons and more stars to fill the sky. There is no energy cost to doing so; those rules only apply within Creation. Here, whatever you can imagine becomes true as long as no greater being than you opposes your desires. And as I am alone that is no problem._ ”

“What about humans?”

“ _Oh, I can do humans too._ ” Jess appeared and sat down next to Sam, who just stared at her.

“Are you… are you real?” She shrugged.

“Again, depends on how you define real. But Jess isn’t sentient, I’m just speaking with her voice. Sorry.” She put her hand to Sam’s shoulder and held him still against the sobbing. “I should have picked a more tactful example, I suppose.” She disappeared and Sam felt the tears dry up, leaving not even salt traces.

“ _That’s the problem. No sentience, no souls. It took God trillions upon trillions of years to create a life form complex enough to show sentience - even I’m not sure how long, because time wasn’t measured back then and I was only around at the very end of it. I’ve been trying, but everything I create is just a computer program that carries out my instructions to the letter, with varying degrees of autonomy but no independent thought._ ”

“So you’re tired of playing single player sandbox mode.”

“ _You’re the first soul I’ve interacted with in a quarter of a million years, if you don’t count spying through the keyhole._ ”

“Aaand back to creepy. Seriously? You’re doing pretty well keeping up with the times if you’ve been in time-out for that long.”

“ _Again, your comprehension of me is limited by your own experiences. I appear within the framework of what you expect of me_.”

“Can we just get going already?” Sam shifted awkwardly. He had some weird superpowered demon locked up in his mind and he had just agreed to go bust him out of this cage (though he was pretty certain the Cage had been built for a reason and escaping from it  _would have consequences_ ) and here they were, having a calm discussion hanging infinity feet up in the air.

“ _Of course._ ”

The sky flickered out and Sam felt his body moving without his direction. Luke - because it had to be him - took three steps back and down, before focussing their eyes on the five-pointed crack that was now the only source of light around. He dived for it, gravity seemingly not existing anymore, and time seemed to speed up, or maybe it was them speeding up, but the glowing star rushed up to them, Luke shifted and dispersed from his senses, and they hit.


	3. Circles of Hell

Sam didn’t lose consciousness this time. Instead he reacted instantly once they were through the barrier of the Cage, scrabbling to gain a handhold on the smooth rock wall. He managed to grab onto a jagged cleft, though it slashed against his left thumb and he felt the sticky wetness of blood. He hoped wounds did not turn septic in Hell.

Looking behind him, the Cage was a mere two feet away. Sam wasn’t certain which way was up just yet, because it seemed to exert its own gravitational pull. His hands were stuck in an awkward position and the lactic acid buildup was beginning to burn.

Staring up at the cliff above him, he saw the path. It was maybe ten feet away; not that far but then again maybe too far. He wasn’t going to be able to cling on for that much longer.

“Could use some help here?” No answer, although his voice echoed loudly around him. Sam screamed a couple of swear words at the top of his lungs, listening to them reverberate around, and it made him feel just a little better.

He slapped his right hand out in front of him and grasped another crack in the rock - it was sticky and smelled and Sam could tell there were traces of demon blood in whatever slime coated it because his brain was going haywire and warring between  _get it off me_ and  _lick it off_ , and wasn’t that just peachy.

He dragged himself up another foot and felt the pull by the Cage on his feet lessen slightly. Breathing heavily, he looked for another handhold. There was one, but it was just out of reach.

He reached for it anyway, but then his tenuous footholds gave way under the slime and he slipped. Sam was left dangling by one hand that felt like it was on fire.

He wasn’t going to be able to make it. He was going to fall right back into the Cage and somehow he knew that that was a very, very bad idea. Mostly because Luke - whoever he was - hadn’t followed him through and was either still back there or more likely destroyed, and the demon was really the only hope of surviving in that darkhole. He’d nearly been driven mad alone. Hey, maybe this was just a fevered dream of his mind.

It would be just like his mind to conjure up a dream where he was mad and in pain and terrified, wouldn’t it?

“Damn it, not like this!” Not alone! Sam wanted to die next to his brother, sacrificing himself to save an innocent life and being given a true hunter’s funeral with salt and flames. Not alone in Hell while Dean still needed him and nobody would even know where he was.

Sam was suddenly hit with acute awareness of how far he was from home. And he began to cry softly, tears leaking down his face as his hand spasmed with pain and he slipped again.

He closed his eyes.

_“Not just yet.”_

Ice shot through Sam’s veins and his body moved of its own accord, scrambling with ease up the slope that had just before seemed unconquerable. He was left on the path, shivering at the cold that had descended and sobbing as his body realised he wasn’t going to die after all.

“T-thanks.”

_“No need to thank me, Sam. You granted me freedom; your life is nothing to that.”_

“Gee, I’m touched.” A second. Two. Then suddenly Sam was laughing uncontrollably, his giggles bouncing off the walls as his brain gave up trying to make sense of things and souped him up on dopamine. Then he coughed, stopped laughing, and sat up shaking his head.

“Let’s find your brother, Sam.”

Luke rose to his feet and looked around, for the first time in hundreds of thousands of years observing the world through the limitations of human eyesight. Blinking, he decided it was an odd colour filter to have, though it sufficed for all practical purposes.

Ahead of them the path curved around to the left, along the cliff wall. The steps rose up, treacherous and steep. Luke didn’t mind and ran up them two at a time.

_“Careful, don’t fall.”_

“Sam, my sense of balance is inorganic and separate from this body; I can maintain traction even on vertical surfaces using my Grace. I will be fine.” All this was said without Sam’s body seeming out of breath, despite it currently doing its best impression of an olympic sprinter. “Again, my Grace enhances your potential far beyond what mortals can achieve.”

 _“Grace?”_  Sam had heard the word a few times but had let it slide before. Now curiosity was burning him.

“It is one name for the power of a soul. There are many others.”

_“Like?”_

“Willpower. Psychic energy. Sentience. Grace usually refers to the power of souls not your own, obtained through full consent rather than by force. Though in my case my Grace originates from my own soul; I am one of four that obtain it this way.”

_“Who are the other three?”_

“That is not important for now.” Luke slowed the body to a gentle walk, though still he wasn’t breathing hard. “We are approaching the sixth Circle of Hell. I have cast a spell that averts the eyes of anyone passing, so our face will not be recognised. We will simply appear as an unnamed vessel to anyone who looks.”

The echoing screams which had been quiet before were growing louder.

_“What is on the sixth Circle?”_

“It is where demons who have failed or disobeyed are brought back to order. It is also the reason why Circle seven is so empty; no demon wants to pass this place for fun.”

_“…Torture devices?”_

“Yes, among other things. If you are curious, we could stop to look. I can wrap light around us so we fade from sight.”

_“Nope. I am absolutely fine keeping my distance, thanks.”_

The screams grew louder still. There were yells and cries that sounded human, and raw screeches that sounded anything but. The vessels were in states of decay, their vocal chords rotting as maggots ate them from the inside out. Sam could tell all this from the sounds, but when the steps sloped off into a ledge path again, he saw what looked like metal scaffolding branching out from the wall into the darkness.

“It is iron, salted and rusty for maximum pain. It is easier for the fluids to drain if the tables hang over the Pit.”

If Sam had had control of the body at that moment, he would have shuddered. Someone yelled out in a hoarse voice that turned to gurgling. Then a wet squelch and a scream. He saw a shape he had figured was part of the scaffolding straighten up and then a soft giggling sound.

_“Can you speed up again?”_

“Of course, though it will be an hour before we reach the next set of steps.”

It _was_ an hour, and Sam spent most of it torn between morbid fascination, disgusted horror, and the desire to climb out over the railings and drain a demon’s corpse dry. The scaffolding towers were spaced at regular intervals, though the occasional one was broken or otherwise in disarray. He counted them as a way to judge distance.

There were pleas for help echoing around, and sobbing cries, and he wondered how many of them were demons he’d exorcised being punished for doing a bad job. The thought made him sick. He’d never considered it before.

Sam was glad when they finally reached the steps jutting out of the wall, and glad that Luke let him turn his head to watch the smog haze out that awful place as they ascended further.

 

 

 

 

 

  
* * *

_“What’s that up there?”_

The gloom ahead of them was punctuated by tiny lights along the wall.

“The fifth Circle of Hell. Where most demons live.”

Getting closer, the lights turned out to be lanterns, though what was in them surely wasn’t fire. The glow emitted was too steady for that. Sam wanted to reach out and touch one, but Luke wouldn’t let him and they walked past on the now well-lit path.

When the steps gave way to a ledge, Sam was struck by possibly the best view of his life. The ledge widened, though it was more of a deeper cut into the rock as the wall became a cave ceiling above them, and there were little glowing houses hewn into the cliff-side. Lanterns of all colours were hung up like festival lights and there were children - fuck, were they actual children or demonic kiddy vessels? - playing about and laughing. Adults too, though from what he could hear of the buzz of conversation the language they were speaking wasn’t one he recognised. Or  _languages_ , because that one sounded Slavic, but it sure as anything wasn’t Russian, and he thought he heard Latin root words from another.

 _“Is there some special event on?”_  Demonic Christmas? Did they celebrate Christmas in Hell? Probably not since they couldn’t say the word without flinching.

“No.” Luke was whispering under his breath as he walked calmly by, trying not to draw attention. “This is the one place that the demons can call their own. It is their sanctuary. It’s in a constant state of celebration and party for living another day, and also the one area they have to relax and unwind.”

_“Seriously, stop making me sympathize. I’m feeling guilty now.”_

“Demons were all once human, and all of them have gone through trauma beyond what a human can normally stand. More than that, every single demon has sentience and a soul, though it’s been reworked so they can access its power. They are self-aware beings with religion and hierarchy and culture; some never venture out of Hell and most would prefer not to do so unless the alternative was worse.”

_“Worse as in?”_

“That’s why Circle six is just below here, to remind them of their place. If you listen carefully, the sounds of torture carry.”

Sam didn’t really want to listen closely, but now that his attention was brought to the matter it was impossible to not hear - beneath the buzz of talking there were unholy screeches echoing up from below; after each one the swell of conversation rose as if to drown out the sounds.

_“How long from here?”_

“Another hour on this level, then we move to Circle four. I am… unsure… of the best course of action to take there. I will decide on approach.”

_“Why? What’s on-”_

“Hey, you! You got news?”

Luke spun the body round to face the demon, eyes black, who had been walking up behind them. He raised Sam’s eyebrow.

“Like I do, like not. Why?”

“Thought you looked busy. Called up to two? Heard they’re on reinforcement protocols now.” His English sounded accented and Luke shrugged, then replied in a language Sam didn’t know,

“Mi aŭdis, ke ankaŭ, sed mi ne partoprenis kun la batalado. Mi portas mesaĝon de la sesa rondo.” A delighted smile spread over the demon’s face.

“Ho, alia parolanto! Do vi estas por grava tasko do? Ĉu estas konfidenca, aŭ ĉu ili simple faris relajsoj de enuigaj aferoj?”

“Enuigaj aferoj. Malgraŭ tio, la anĝeloj estus friti min laŭ rekta lukto kaj tiu devo malhelpas min alfrontas ilin, do …”

“Vi trompa amason da merdo, bonan sorton!”

[“Dankon.”](https://translate.google.com/#eo/en/Mi%20a%C5%ADdis%2C%20ke%20anka%C5%AD%2C%20sed%20mi%20ne%20partoprenis%20kun%20la%20batalado.%20Mi%20portas%20mesa%C4%9Don%20de%20la%20sesa%20rondo.%E2%80%9D%20A%20delighted%20smile%20spread%20over%20the%20demon%E2%80%99s%20face.%0A%0A%E2%80%9CHo%2C%20alia%20parolanto!%20Do%20vi%20estas%20por%20grava%20tasko%20do%3F%20%C4%88u%20estas%20konfidenca%2C%20a%C5%AD%20%C4%89u%20ili%20simple%20faris%20relajsoj%20de%20enuigaj%20aferoj%3F%E2%80%9D%0A%0A%E2%80%9CEnuigaj%20aferoj.%20Malgra%C5%AD%20tio%2C%20la%20an%C4%9Deloj%20estus%20friti%20min%20la%C5%AD%20rekta%20lukto%20kaj%20tiu%20devo%20malhelpas%20min%20alfrontas%20ilin%2C%20do%20%E2%80%A6%E2%80%9D%0A%0A%E2%80%9CVi%20trompa%20amason%20da%20merdo%2C%20bonan%20sorton!%E2%80%9D%0A%0A%E2%80%9CDankon.%E2%80%9D) Luke waved and continued on, the demon parting ways with them.

_“What was that? What did he say?”_

“There is… fighting on Circle two. It would be best not to say more, but he wished me a safe journey up the levels.”

They walked on, bringing their pace to a quick jog, Sam admiring the scenery as they passed. He’d thought Hell would be fire and burning, but the only flames he had seen were the lights in the jars and the one time when he saw five teenage demons sitting around a campfire that seemed to be burning directly off the rock. One of them had an honest-to-god pack of marshmallows with a Walmart label on it. Seriously, not what he’d expected.

Some of the demons were dressed in old fashioned robes, some even in togas or quilts, but most had shabby looking jeans and t-shirts on. Although…

_“Are these demons in vessels or is this how they normally appear?”_

“Vessels. Though there are others in soul form, if you look for the black smoke.” Luke raised their arm to point, and Sam saw what had to be a demon gliding down and over to the left. “Without a physical form it is hard to envision a personality, as emotions are tied at least somewhat to biological impulses. For someone raised as a human, it can be uncomfortable.”

_“I’m going to pretend I understood that.”_

“It is of little consequence.”

Five minutes later, or maybe it was ten, they passed a demon running along the very outside of the ledge, closest to the pit. He was holding one of the lanterns in his hand, and it shone brighter than any of the others Sam had seen so far. It flickered with the demon’s running pace.

[“Ni enpakis alia!”](https://translate.google.com/#eo/en/%E2%80%9CNi%20enpakis%20alia!%E2%80%9D)

There were whoops and a few cheers. Sam was pretty up-to-date on languages, but he didn’t recognise this one, though it seemed generally derived from Latin and was probably European. He asked Luke but didn’t receive an answer straight away, which was odd.

_“Hey, are you still in there? I asked what the language was!”_

“It won’t matter to you. Demons only use it to talk to their own kind; humans have no need to learn it. It is neutral ground, and most demons prefer to learn it so they hide their past ethnic identity.”

_“Why would they need to do that? I’m pretty sure racism isn’t gonna be top of the social problems of being a demon.”_

“Knowing a person’s first language tells you how they spoke when they were alive. One thing leads to another and some demons can work out identities; not all, but some. Once your name is common knowledge it can’t be taken back, and you are easier to summon and control. Ssh.”

 _“Wha- oh.”_  Another demon, this one giving them odd looks.

“Kial vi tiom rapidas?”

“Mi iras al rondo du.” Her eyes widened and she shook her head.

“Ĝi estas sangavida venkobato tie supre. La anĝeloj estas mortigi cent por ĉiu el ni kapti.”

“Mi ankoraŭ devas iri. Malobei ordonojn kondukus al pli doloro ol plumokapo indulgon [kill](https://translate.google.com/#eo/en/%E2%80%9CKial%20vi%20tiom%20rapidas%3F%E2%80%9D%0A%0A%E2%80%9CMi%20iras%20al%20rondo%20du.%E2%80%9D%20Her%20eyes%20widened%20and%20she%20shook%20her%20head.%0A%0A%E2%80%9C%C4%9Ci%20estas%20sangavida%20venkobato%20tie%20supre.%20La%20an%C4%9Deloj%20estas%20mortigi%20cent%20por%20%C4%89iu%20ni%20kapti.%E2%80%9D%0A%0A%E2%80%9CMi%20ankora%C5%AD%20devas%20iri.%20Malobei%20ordonojn%20kondukus%20al%20pli%20doloro%20ol%20plumo%20kapo%20indulgon%20kill.%E2%80%9D).”

 _“Fuck! What the HELL are you talking about, Luke?”_  Sam really did not like being left out of the loop.

“[Foriru.](https://translate.google.com/#eo/en/Foriru.)” Luke snapped at the demon and she shrugged, gave a ‘not my problem’ gesture, and headed off out of Sam’s line of sight. “Like I said, fighting. Hell is under heavy assault. Angels have established a stronghold in the first circle and are in the process of capturing the second. The demons here are being sent up as cannon fodder.”

_“Angels.”_

“Yes.”

 _“Bullshit; angels don’t exist.”_  Sam felt his own mouth curl up in a smile.

“I assure you, they do. I’ve had a few nasty run-ins myself.”

_“…Fuck. Angels are assaulting Hell? Why?”_

“Angels and demons don’t exactly  _get along_ , Sam. We hate each other. I’m sure most if not all of the ones being sent into battle are following orders and have not an inch of free will in them, whereas the demons have all the free will in the world but not enough power to back it up. Foriru!” He shooed off another demon and then picked up their pace from a jog to a sprint.

_“How long until the next Circle?”_

“Ten minutes, maybe less. We will stop on the stairs and work out how to best journey through there.”

_“You never told me what was on Circle four.”_

“Nightmares. Torture of the mind rather than the body. Only demons can venture through without permanent breakdown, because their souls are already crushed to powder. The fourth Circle acts as a border between the upper and lower reaches of Hell, separating the human souls from the demons they become. Angels cannot cross it, so we are safe from them here.”

_“But once we’re out?”_

“Once we ascend to Circle three, the Circle of physical torture, we must find Dean and leave as soon as possible. We must not be seen.”

Sam was still considering this when they reached the steps and Luke hopped up them two by two, leaving the caverns and demons below them. The buzzing of voices faded into the perpetual echo of the place, and now nobody was passing them. The stairs were empty but for the little jars of light hung along the wall, and even those were thinning out.

_“How long?”_

“We stop now.”

 

 

 

 

  
* * *

They stopped. Sam gasped as suddenly he was thrown back into control, and was struck by the sudden paralysing terror of  _there is no ground there I’m so high up I’m going to fall_ , but he sat down on one of the ledges and breathed in and out until it went away. He wasn't usually afraid of heights, but the shock of the sudden change had made him panic.

“Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch ouch.” His muscles were so sore; Luke had been running them ragged seemingly without caring. “Can you fix them?”

 _“Of course.”_  A freezing shot of cold in his blood and the burning pain numbed back to how it had been before.  _“I will heal them properly later. For now we must focus on crossing the fourth Circle.”_

Sam looked up. The gloom wasn’t so bad up here, but above him there was what looked like a solid black ceiling and he couldn’t see past it.

“That’s the Circle, right? It doesn’t look like we can pass.”

_“It is not a physical barrier. It is more of a smoke, or a storm cloud. I am more concerned with how our souls will fare in crossing.”_

“What exactly-” His voice cracked in the dry air. He was so thirsty. “What is the fourth Circle like? I mean, does it conjure up a load of spiders? I can deal with spiders.”

_“It reacts to the presence of a soul by forming into images drawn from the darkest parts of that soul. What it forms is highly specific to the individual. It manifests as your worst fears.”_

“So, maybe spiders.” He tried to smile, then realised his lips were now chapped.

_“Not for you, I don’t think.”_

“What would it be, then?” He tried to think what his worst fear was. Dean being tortured was the only thing that sprang to mind, because, y’know…

_“Nobody knows what their worst fear is until they face it. It’s not like the fears you experience in life; they are watered down imitations. Facing the fourth Circle will break you, without exception. Not a single soul has survived the crossing bar those of the demons.”_

“Yeah, so I’m seeing a problem with this. How am I going to survive? Or is that the deal we made, you save Dean and I’ll go break my soul for the privilege?”

 _“No!”_  Luke actually sounded  _offended_ , the demonic sonofabitch.  _“I will cross, and I will shield your eyes and ears from the torment. As long as I hide my Grace in the way I escaped the Cage, it should not register my presence even though I am in control. I will face your worst fears rather than my own.”_

“Hey, hey, wait a minute. You’re a demon, right? You said they could cross without hiccups.”

_“I am not so demonic that the circle will accept me as one of its Denziens. Not yet, at least.”_

“Okay then, sounds like a plan. You sure you can navigate in the smoke, though?”

 _“I need a light, from Grace. It cannot be my own, so I was thinking…”_  Without warning Luke took back control and Sam yelped (silently) in protest as he made the body jump to its feet in one smooth motion, before unhooking the nearest light to them from the wall.

_“Yeah, I was meaning to ask what the hell those things were.”_

“Grace, concentrated and moulded into forms capable of directing it. The demons have no means to kill an angel so they siphon off their power and seal it away.”

_“That’s angel power?”_

“It’s an angel. Most angels do not develop their own souls, so concentrated power and directed tasks is all they are. For the ones that do, disobeying their purpose is punished by a removal of that power so only the soul is left, then casting out into a soulless human vessel.”

_“You are telling me that you are holding an angel in there. Seriously.”_

“Yes. Is that so hard to comprehend?”

_“Fuck yeah, it is! An honest-to-god-angel… Wow.”_

Luke huffed and set the jar back on the wall. “This one isn’t in a fit state to guide us, anyway. It’s been cut off from Heaven for too long and the power is dispersing. It’s not bright enough.”

_“Heaven.”_

“Of course Heaven exists. You think the  _angels_  weren’t a tip-off?” Luke handed back control with a snap that had Sam checking his bones just to make sure they weren’t broken.  _“It needs to be you who looks. The brightest angels in our eyes will be the ones connected somewhat to your bloodline, and my own Grace clouds my vision on this issue. Find the brightest one you see.”_

Sam did, and came across one that shone blue like some kind of copper sulfate crystal, and he had no idea why his high school chemistry was popping up in his head but it was  _exactly that colour_ , even though it was glowing so darn bright his dark-adjusted eyes got a spot in the centre of their vision.

“This one,” he said, unhooking it from the wall, “But I’m not sure how I can-”

 _“Let me.”_  Another snap - Sam would wince, because it honestly sounded like bones breaking - and Luke was out, holding the jar up and blinking at it. “Hmm… this one has been down here quite a while. It’s been fighting, the loyal little soldier. And… oh. Oh. Well, that’s interesting.”

_“What?”_

“This one’s got its own soul. That’s why he’s still so bright. He fought so hard he gave himself free will; that’s one angel seriously dedicated to the cause. He must really want to be up and out of here. I’ll see if I can make a bargain.”

Luke sat down and cradled the jar in his arms, whispering to it - no wait, he was humming, the mouth wasn’t twisting to form words, in a language Sam definitely didn’t know, and this was getting ridiculous, really. Languages were meant to be spoken, not sung.

_“Can’t you at least communicate using words?!”_

“Redo doredomi do mifare resilasol.” Okay, that was  _taking the mick_. Sam had done music; he knew solfege, and that means he knew that Luke was straight-up transcribing notes into syllables. He swore amusement was leaking through from Luke, even if he wasn’t sure the bond between them worked that way.

They set the jar back on the ground and then Luke spoke again, in English this time (thank heck), obviously talking to Sam.

“He has agreed to help, on the condition that we don’t tell his superiors about this.”

_“You were going to?”_

“Of course not.” Luke picked up the angel jar by the handle and stood up. “It’s time to go.”

They walked on, the hovering black film getting closer with every moment, the blue angel light holding steady in luminance without flickering.

“This is very important, Sam. If you find yourself in control of the body while we are in the smoke, something has gone wrong. If the Circle detects my presence it will manifest my fears rather than yours, and I won’t be able to cope. I will hand over control. Before it realises the switch, you must throw yourself off the ledge.”

_“Won’t that kill us?”_

“I can heal any variety of physical injury, even those that might result in death, as long as we aren’t unlucky enough to hit the Cage. Injuries direct to the soul are far harder to heal.”

_“You’re not filling me with confidence, here.”_

“You don’t need any. I’m the one facing this.”

_“Are you going to tell me what comes up? I kind of want to know what my worst fears are.”_

“No, that’s not wise.”

And then they were in. The echoes and footsteps faded to silence, and the sights of the world gave way to black. Sam could still taste the air on his tongue and feel how his clothes rustled against him (and how there was a wet patch on his right arm that was probably blood), but other than that, nothing. The sensations of feeling were all that kept him from losing himself in the blackness because, at this moment, he’d had enough of that to last a whole lifetime.

It felt more like a cloud than like smoke; Sam could feel the black haze curling like fog around his hands as they continued walking - no, wait, Luke had them running - upwards.

_“How is it?”_

“Fine so far. It is reacting to your presence but I can see no sign of mine. The angel’s light is holding strong, and the jar he is in seems to be sheltering him from the negative effects.”

 _“What’s out there?”_  Sam was  _very_ conscious of the fact that he was handing over all the information on his worst fears to a demon, even if Luke didn’t seem like the torturing type.

“Many things; Azazel is among them, but there are others I do not recognise even with your memories. Blood seems to feature quite prominently.”

_“Fuck. Demon or human?”_

“Both. There are also…” Luke’s voice cut off, and that was when Sam felt it.

Something had attached itself to his right arm.

It was a small something, about the size of a cat, though it didn’t have fur and its skin was rubbery and wet. It was warm-blooded and clinging on with tiny arms or paws or something, and then he felt a sharp scratch as it broke the skin.

 _“What… is… that…”_  He tried to keep very calm. He tried to ignore the mouth on the cut - the tiny mouth, suckling his arm, and the blood running out of it in rivulets and not seeming to stop.  _“Oh god, it’s a kid. A baby. There is a baby drinking my blood. Get it off Get It Off GET IT OFF!”_

“That’s not wise. The Circle will sense that we are reacting to it and will send more.”

_“I don’t care GET IT OFF OF ME!”_

“As you wish.” Their left arm reached around and Sam could feel his hand clenching around the wriggling thing and pulling, pulling until it popped off. “Others are manifesting now.”

There was a touch at the back of his neck.

Then his other arm.

Then both legs, as the  _things_ attached and began to feed like leeches and Sam was screaming in his mind and begging for Luke to please take them off, please make it stop-

He lost all sense of awareness.

_“W-wha?”_

“The Circle was beginning to get through to you, so I have driven your consciousness deeper inside me.” Luke’s voice didn’t echo, and it still sounded scarily like Sam’s own, but he concentrated on it as the only thing that kept him sane. “I had not planned to do this, but it should cause no damage. You are no longer connected to your body’s sensory input, Sam.”

_“Yeah, I got that. Are they still there?”_

“Yes. I do not wish to waste more time removing them. It is best to get through this as quickly as possible.”

_“Talk to me.”_

“What would you like me to say?”

_“I don’t care, just talk. Anything. Make it up. But don’t leave me alone in here.”_

“Very well. Have you ever wondered why the first two passages of the Bible contradict each other?”

_“Huh? What? Oh, the creation stories! Yeah. I’d always figured it was people going nutso with what they wrote down…”_

“…Yet now you are not so sure, being aware of the existence of angels. Correct?”

_“I guess. So what’s the real reason the world got created twice? Was there an Apocalypse before or something?”_

“No. The first one concerns the creation of this planet, but the second one, the creation of Eden, happened long before Earth was more than a frozen rock. Eden was and still is the place where God creates new life. It also contains backup copies of all known life forms in the universe.”

_“Are you saying we’re all descended from aliens?”_

“Essentially.”

_“…Cool.”_

 

 

 

 

  
* * *

Sam had absolutely no idea how long he spent in darkness that time, but Luke kept up a conversation that spanned multiple topic threads, so it must have been a while. He couldn’t even remember much of what they talked about, which gave him a sneaking suspicion that Luke had been doing something to his brain so he wouldn’t start a freakout.

But regardless of that, eventually their conversation (currently detailing the ins and outs of the angelic hierarchy) derailed when Luke stopped in the middle of a sentence.

“We’re out. Give me ten seconds.”

Ten seconds later, Sam blinked and rubbed his eyes. It was  _bright_ , and  _hot_. He didn’t think it was just him adjusting; the whole area was shimmering in a heat haze. The gloom from before was gone, and instead he could see for miles up, and miles across the cavern.

He looked down, saw the smoky carpet about ten feet away from him, and heard a screech of frustration, and then suddenly a thousand pairs of  _yellow eyes_  were blinking back at him with an evil glint in them…

And his body did not follow his orders to freeze in panic, as Luke took over and whipped their head round away from the sight. He ran full pelt up the steps and didn’t stop until they had reached the third circle, some hundred feet above.

“I should not have let you into control so soon; that was remiss of me.”

_“Doesn’t matter. Where’s Dean?”_

The third Circle of Hell was criss-crossed with chains dug into the walls. Iron chains, it looked like, and Sam could see that at the intersections there were people, strung up like lumps of meat and screaming.

_“Where are we gonna start looking?”_

“We need to honour our promise first.”

Sam nearly thought “ _what promise?”_  and then he remembered the jar they were holding. Luke sang a few soft notes to the angel inside, and Sam mentally transcribed them as  _sol domi mifalare dore farefasol domi re sisolsifa_ (gosh he was glad he’d paid attention in music), before he unscrewed the lid (seriously, a screw lid?) and off popped the top.

There was a flash of really bright copper-sulfate-blue light and the sense of something  _rising_  and then the angel was gone and they were left with an empty jar. Luke threw Sam back into control.

 _“Domisisol”_ fuck this, now Luke was talking to him in sing-song language, but he guessed it was the angel’s name,  _“has promised a distraction. Go find Dean before the angels resume their assault.”_

“How am I supposed to do that?”

_“There are two paths from here. Either we walk along the side or we run along the chains. Choose.”_

“I have no clue, okay!”

_“Yes you do. Your soul has the power to manipulate reality if you will it to. Pick a path - either path - and it will be the right one.”_

“I’m not sure if it works like-”

_“Choose!”_

“Alright, fine! We climb the stairs.” Sam turned in that direction.

And turned back, because Luke had switched gears again, and now he was stepping deftly along the links of the chain, arms out to the sides like some kind of demented tightrope walker.

_“What was that for?”_

“The first three Circles of Hell are impossible to navigate because they actively mislead humans into making the wrong choices. Any instinctual decision made by you here will always be the wrong one. To make the right one I simply needed to do the opposite.”

_“And let me guess, you’re immune, so you couldn’t have just done it to yourself.”_

“Naturally. Though you making an instinctive decision and then knowingly picking the opposite of that would still lead you wrong. This method requires both you and me. I can sense a Winchester up ahead. Are you certain it is not your father?”

_“He escaped, didn’t he?”_

“I believe so. Likely it’s Dean.”

They heard screaming from ahead of them. Well, there were screams all around, but these screams Sam  _recognised_. He could have picked them out from a million others if they were the faintest ones there.

They had both spent enough time suffering to know what the other’s screams sounded like.

_“Dean!”_

It didn’t sound like a scream of agony. It sounded like a yell of frustration, of despair, tailing off to a whimper before Sam could pinpoint the direction, but it had to be close by. Maybe it had been amplified somehow.

“He’s just along here, not far. The demons have put him at the very bottom of the third Circle to keep him away from the angels.” Sam staggered as control was shifted over again, nearly falling off the chain because really it wasn’t a good idea to lose balance  _here_ , but he stumbled on.

The iron links gave way to an iron floor that apparently hung suspended between the criss-crossing supports, and Sam saw two bodies on it. One standing up and one twitching about on the floor.

To his horror, Dean  _wasn’t_  the one being tortured. He was the one doing the  _torturing_ , bloody knife held in his hands, crying even as he carved up that poor woman’s flesh like some demented chef with a cannibalistic cookbook.

“Dean-” He cut off, not even sure what to say. What can you say? Sam felt like throwing up as his world spun around him. His brother had always been the pillar of all things good, the  _righteous man_  - fuck, where did that thought come from - but now that was gone and, and, and…

Sam whimpered.

Dean raised the knife, screamed again, and sliced once more. Sam flinched and closed his eyes, fighting vomit. He wasn’t going to watch.

_“Alistair has broken him; do you see the cracks spreading across his soul? A few more years and it will shatter into pieces and he will be a demon. The first seal rested with the unbroken soul of a righteous man, but Dean’s torture was the key to my freedom.”_

“Shut UP! I don’t care. Dean? Dean!” He didn’t seem to notice them, even though by this point they were five feet away at most. “Why isn’t he seeing us?”

_“I have crafted the light around us to hide us from sight. Dean can hear us, but he is not listening.”_

“How do we help him?”

_“Grip his arm tightly. It will be a very harsh ride, and he will not survive if you let go.”_

Sam did just that, walking up to his brother and grabbing the hand with the knife in, twisting it out so that it dropped to the floor and clattered away. Dean watched it numbly, his eyes looking like all the life had gone out of them.

“Well? Do it. Go.”

 _“Not yet.”_  Sam’s head tilted up to the sky (though it wasn’t sky, just thousands of chains and smog and heat haze), looking for something that he couldn’t yet see.  _“We wait for the signal.”_

They waited, Dean still staring in consternation at his wrist.

_“Now.”_

A firework of brilliant blue lit up the air far above them and suddenly there was a  _lifting_  inside of Sam’s heart, and he felt the arm holding Dean jerk with sudden weight because he was rising off the floor and getting faster and faster and faster-

-He couldn’t help it, he let go. And for a terrifying moment he couldn’t do anything but watch as Dean’s hand slipped out of his grip and began to fall and there was a question asked in the back of his mind and then a realisation-

Luke wrenched their arm downwards, dislocating it from the socket with a burst of pain, and their outstretched palm just brushed against the skin of their brother’s shoulder. Fire burst out of the place where they touched, burning hellfire that was melting and welding the skin together because this time he wasn’t taking  _any_ chances.

And together, the three of them rose from Hell, past the chains, past the rocks and the burning scrub of the second Circle, past the demons that squawked and fled out of their way, past the multicoloured beings of light that broke into a  _literal_  chorus of singing notes that clashed every which way in panic and fear, past the first Circle of fire and brimstone, hitting the ceiling with the force of a meteor, and  _breaking through._

Hundreds of miles away, Anna shot up in her bed as a voice louder than any she had heard before announced to her ears, and she knew that this was the voice of God.

_**“Dean Winchester is Saved.”** _

 

_** ** _


	4. Chapter 4

How much had he been drinking last night?

Quite a bit, if the pounding in his head was anything to go by. Sam’s hangover was so bad, it took him at least five minutes from waking up for him to figure out he wasn’t in his own bed. Another minute to work out he wasn’t in a motel bed either. About three seconds after that, he realised he wasn’t in  _any_ bed, but that was about the time that an earwig crawled up his nose so it was pretty obvious.

He sneezed and sat up, the action making his forehead throb and him come over all woozy. Where  _was_  he? Had he passed out in a ditch somewhere? Huh.

On doing a quick once-over for injuries, Sam discovered that it wasn’t just his head that felt like a bomb had blown up in the immediate vicinity. His calves were sore with the kind of soreness you had after running a marathon, his back hurt from having sticks poke into it for god-knows how long, his left arm felt like someone had wrenched it out of its socket and popped it back in, he had sunburn (or maybe just straight-up burns) all over his face and arms, and his body was crying out for water so much he didn’t think he’d be able to speak for a while. All in all, whatever he’d been doing last night was pushing physical limits. Or maybe he’d just been that drunk.

He still couldn’t remember it, though. Had he been hunting something? It seemed like the obvious answer. He hoped he’d ganked that sonofabitch, whatever it had been. He was alive, at least, so that skewed the odds towards one dead monster. Or maybe two. Or three.

Hah, it was far too early in the morning for this. Never mind the fact that the sun was up and shining and probably making the sunburn worse.

Sam rose shakily to his feet and got a good glimpse of the area around. Then blinked, not sure if he was seeing this right or his drink-addled mind was playing tricks on him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The clearing he was in - and it had to be called a  _clearing_ , because - it had felled trees all around it, all pointing away from the centre. It looked like a nuke had gone off. So maybe that explained the injuries, though it raised the question of how he’d survived such a blast.

Fuck, what the hell had he been hunting?

There was a snap not too far away, followed by the sound of shifting dirt. Sam dropped to the floor, trying to make himself a smaller target. So maybe the mystery monster wasn’t quite dead after all. He tried to pinpoint the sound, but his hearing still wasn’t working quite right and his head was aching too badly. Off to the right, possibly.

He scoured the clearing with his eyes, looking for movement in the grass. There was a single tree sapling still standing in its centre (how?), and the sound seemed to come from there.

No, wait, that wasn’t a sapling. That was a wooden grave marker.

With a chill that raised goosebumps along his arms despite the hot weather, Sam realised  _exactly_  which clearing he was in.

He crept forward slowly, hangover forgotten, walking towards his brother’s grave. As he’d thought, the scrabbling sound was coming from there. That could only mean one thing.

When Dean’s hand emerged from his grave and reached blindly upwards, Sam caught it and helped pull him out, barely daring to look at what he had become. Then they hugged.

For a while the two of them just stood there, neither willing to talk, Sam desperately trying to recall what events had led to them being here, now, Dean alive. Or a zombie. He would check, but he had no supplies and didn’t want to shatter the illusion.

Dean spoke first, like usual.

“Sammy, what the hell did you  _do_?” His brother’s voice was hoarse but still functioning, an amazing feat for a corpse dead three months.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Sam shook his head. “It’s like there’s this block in my memories. One minute, I was… I can’t remember that either. But I just woke up here, same as you I guess.”

“You made a deal.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Probably, yeah.” He checked his watch, before realising he wasn’t wearing one. “But it’s weird; none of the demons I talked to would deal. Even with what I was offering…” He trailed off, not quite sure what to say. Dean was pinning him with that don’t-lie-to-me gaze. Sam sighed and whispered, “I didn’t ask for ten years, or even one. I just wanted ten minutes to check you were okay before they dragged me off.”

Dean stiffened. Sam could see the way his eyes narrowed into almost slits as he squinted around, looking for the slightest trace of anything amiss. Of a hellhound.

“I won’t let them take you, Sam. It’s hell down there; I’d go back before I’d let them drag you down.”

They had no salt and no holy water. They had no water full stop, and the sun was still beating down on them. If something demonic was coming, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Sam knew Dean knew this.

“But like I said, it’s weird. It’s been way more than ten minutes since I woke up here, and I’m still kicking. Think about it. How long were you in that grave for?”

“…Weird, all right. Maybe it has been more than ten minutes. Doesn’t mean that the deal you made couldn’t have had a different time length.”

Sam laughed. It was a dry laugh, more of a wheeze, and it sent him into a coughing fit.

“Dean, I was  _offering_  a ten-minute thing. Even if they did negotiate, a demon’s hardly gonna bargain up on the time front.” That seemed to make Dean relax a bit, so he continued. “Besides, even if the clock is ticking, I don’t want to spend my last time on Earth with you mad at me. So no accusations, okay?”

“…Yeah. Alright. Where are we, though?”

“Pontiac, Illinois. Or just outside of. There’s a gas station near here that’s unmanned most of the time. You want to break in for a drink of water?”

“Oh, I could  _so_ go for that.”

 

  
* * *

The gas station was just over a mile away. It seemed so much further when you didn’t have a car. Sam didn’t remember what had happened to the Impala, and decided not to mention it.

“It’s August…”

Sam looked round, half empty water bottle in his hand, to see Dean by the newspaper rack.

“Yeah. 2008. Only three months.”

“Months…” Dean was still staring at the newspaper, seemingly zoned out. Sam walker over and waved a hand in front of his face.

“Hello, Earth to Dean? Yes, months. Snap out of it, it’s not that bad.”

“It felt like decades.” That shut Sam up. “I was down there for… I tried to count at first, but they don’t have days. And I couldn’t keep it up, couldn’t concentrate while they…”

“You remember?”

“Flashes. Mostly the first part. It gets real sketchy towards the end. It’s like a nightmare; I remember that when I first woke up I remembered it, but it’s fading. What about you?”

“Dean, I’m fine, this is about your-”

“No, this is about you selling your soul to get me out. What was the last thing before you woke up?”

“I told you, I don’t know. It’s not even a blur, it’s just a big blank.”

“Because my working theory is that you  _didn’t_  make a deal, and that you’re in the exact same position as I am right now.” Sam frowned.

“I’m not following you.”

“Think about it. I die, I go to hell, my memories of the last bit are blanked out, I wake up in that clearing with no explanation how or why. You die, your memories blank out, you wake up same as me.”

“I didn’t die.”

“How do you  _know_ that, Sammy? You don’t remember.”

Sam started to gesture to his still-intact body, then stopped. No, Dean was unmarked too and he’d been half-mush, that couldn’t work.

“Come on Dean, I like thinking positive, but that’s going a bit too far. There’s nobody out there that cares enough about us to raise us both.”

“There’s Bobby. We should call him.”

“Still, what I said before. The demons aren’t dealing for souls already in Hell, and nobody else is out there with the mojo.”

“Then how do you explain this, Sam? Am I still in Hell? Is this some kind of new torture they’ve come up with, or have I finally cracked?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Dean shrugged.

“Well, if they’re trying to torture me, they’re not doing that good of a job. This place stocks Busty Asian Beauties.” He reached forward to grab one off the shelf. “Oy, Sammy, work out how to turn the television on, would you? It’d be nice to know the exact date, since I don’t think those newspapers are today’s. They’re way too crumpled.” He buried his nose in the magazine and Sam rolled his eyes before turning his attention to the television on the counter.

It turned on.

…Okay. Well, that was odd and a little scary. The screen was showing static, so Sam fiddled with the buttons. Nope, no visible picture. He turned it off in frustration.

It turned on again.

Once could be overlooked, but twice needed explaining. Sam hadn’t been ingesting demon blood  _as far as he knew_ , and it didn’t feel like he was the cause, so that meant…

The radio in the far corner turned on. A device Sam had neither touched nor even glanced at so far.

“Dean.” His tone made Dean aware something was wrong.

“What is it?”

“Get the salt, there’s something out there.”

“What?” Dean dropped the magazine as the cash register dinged open. “You doing that?”

“No.” They each grabbed a bag of salt from the pile and, without speaking, covered the threshold. Dean went right, Sam went left.

The air began to hum with a high-pitched whine that struck Sam as somehow familiar.

“…Down, Sammy!”

Sam ducked. The windows smashed inwards, first the ones at the other end of the shop, then the one right above his head. Broken glass rained down over his face as he crouched on the floor with his hands over his ears. He could feel blood leaking out of them.

And then suddenly it was like his very bones were resonating inside him, like the sound had hit just the right frequency to have his ribcage vibrating and turning its insides to jelly and he swore he heard Dean yelling something but maybe that was him and the world burned white behind his eyes.

It was a minute, or maybe it was three, before Sam could be reasonably certain that the ringing in his head was just  _in his head_ , and the whine had in fact faded. He was lying with cuts on his cheeks amidst a halo of broken glass and spilled salt that made the tiny wounds sting and brought tears down his face.

“Dean?” he croaked. It hurt to breathe in.

“…I’m here. It didn’t get me.” Sam clutched a shelf for support as he dragged himself to his feet.

“What the… What was that?”

“What? No idea. Who? I’m guessing it was whoever you made the deal with looking to collect. Is anything missing?”

Sam gave himself a quick once over and brushed glass shards out of his clothes, wincing because his ribcage was now sore.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Where’s the Impala, by the way?”

“No clue.”

“What do you mean, no clue?” Dean fixed Sam with a  _glare_.

“I mean, last thing I remember before waking up in that clearing, I was driving the thing around. Three states away. But to be honest, Dean? I really could care less at the moment. It’s just a  _car_. I just narrowly escaped being dragged off downstairs and before that I spent three months mourning your death. So excuse me if I’m not empathetic enough for you, but I don’t give a damn about the Impala right now.” The look of utter shock on Dean’s face made a surge of fierce joy bubble up inside him, but it was doused immediately by guilt. “…Sorry.”

“No, you’re right.” Dean refused to meet his gaze and kicked a shard of glass with his shoe, watching it wobble and spin on the shop floor. “It is just a car. I don’t- I don’t care either. There are more important things to worry about.”

“Like how we get out of here. How do we get out of here?”

“I’ll hotwire one of the cars out there. Stock up on what you want and then go use the phone box to call Bobby. Ow!” Dean clutched his left arm. “Hang on a sec, I think I got cut bad by that glass. You might need to stitch me up.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Upper arm, underneath and outside. Next to the armpit, but I can’t see the extent of it.” Wincing, Dean removed his shirt and inspected it. “Huh. Hurts like Hell, but there's no blood. Take a look at it, would you?”

Sam picked his way over and gently lifted Dean’s forearm. He sucked in a breath.

“Go on, Doctor. Tell me how long I’ve got to live.”

“Well, it’s not bleeding, that’s for sure.” Sam touched the wound, and it felt hard and calloused against his thumb. “But you’re going to have to see this for yourself.” The only mirror in the shop had shattered, but Sam picked up the largest piece and handed it over. Dean angled it so the reflection was just right.

“Woah.”

There was a  _handprint_  burned into Dean’s skin, swollen and puffy and in some places oozing pus into a scab. Sam didn’t know why, but he felt a sudden urge to place his own hand over it. He did so. It fit perfectly.

“What did this? You know of any monster that burns marks of this kind, Sammy?”

“No. Bobby might. You hotwire the car, I’ll ask him. We need to get going before that thing does another sweep of the area.”

605-823-1164

Sam punched the numbers into the phone box with mechanical efficiency; they’d been stamped into his brain when he was much younger than he was now. The phone rang three times before it was picked up.

_“Singer Salvage, who is speaking?”_

“Bobby, it’s me.” There was a drawn-out pause, then-

_“Sam?”_

“The one and only. Look, I need you to-”

 _“Why didn’t you call, Sam? It’s been months.”_  Sam gave a long sigh into the receiver.

“I’m calling now. This is urgent. I need you to look up in the records for a monster that causes electrical disturbances and high-pitched sounds. I’m not sure on this, but its skin might also be hot enough to leave burn marks upon touching it. It’s gonna be humanoid, or at least have human hands.”

_“What is this about?”_

“I’ll explain as soon as we get to your place. Short answer, we don’t know.”

 _“We? Sam, did you make a-”_  Sam clicked off the phone and set it down in the booth.

“Dean, you got that car started yet?”

“Purring away right here! I call driving.”

 

  
* * *

It took, what, five hours for them to get to Bobby’s? About that. Sam spent most of it awkwardly curled up in the front seat taking frequent sips of water, watching the world go past as his eyelids drooped. His mind felt frazzled, and he thought he might have early stage heatstroke. Oddly enough, Dean seemed fine. Apart from the  _massive handprint burn,_  he was unmarked and by the way he was driving, was raring and ready to go hunt monsters.

“Sammy, you okay down there?”

“Yeah, I’m-” Sam cut off with a huge yawn. “I’m good. Are we nearly there yet?”

“Half an hour. You look beat. Go catch up on sleep once we’re there; I’ll talk to Bobby about the Mosquito.”

“Mosquito? Seriously?”

“Well, you have to admit it kinda sounded like one. Of course, that would be one motherfucker of a mosquito. We’d need a really big flyswatter.”

And then they were laughing, both of them, Dean giving a brief chuckle and Sam just quietly giggling like a junkie shot up on heroin. God, he really needed to go to sleep.

Dean woke him up once they’d arrived, and Sam realised he’d been dozing, but he was lucid enough to know that he should probably be the one knocking on the door. No idea what Bobby would do if he found a recently-deceased Dean on his front doorstep, but he didn’t think it would be pretty.

So he rang the doorbell for about a second before Bobby opened up, and apparently he’d seen the car come into the drive and Sam walk up to the door, having watched through the window. Dean was still in the driver’s seat, waiting.

“Sam, you look terrible. What happened to you?”

“Bobby, do you have a silver knife on you? And holy water?”

“Of course, but why? What’s going on?”

“…I need you to check. That it’s really him, alright.” Sam jerked his head in the direction of the car. “Be as subtle about it as you can.”

Bobby looked, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Dean, who gave a cheery wave and a grin before stepping out onto the driveway.

“Hey, Bobby! Haven’t seen you in a long while.” There was the ringing sound of metal on metal as Bobby drew a silver knife from its sheath beneath his clothes. Dean sighed and held out an arm. “Go ahead.” Bobby made a small incision and watched the blood drip slowly out of the cut. “See? Not a shapeshifter or a reven-” He blinked and spat water out of his mouth. “And not a demon, either.”

Bobby grinned and screwed the flask cap back on before pulling Dean into a massive hug. He met Sam’s gaze over his shoulder and gave him a look that implied a very long, very serious talk was in short order.

“Idjit.”

“Love you too.” Dean ended the hug and stepped back. “But we’ve got a problem on our hands, so we need your help.”

“Yeah, I figured from the phone message. High pitched whine and burning skin? I’ve looked, but there’s nothing that fits both those categories. Plenty that fit one of the other, so we need to go through them.”

Sam flopped on the sofa in the lounge while Dean skimmed over the papers that were arranged semi-neatly over the floor.

“Is this all there is?”

“All I’ve got so far. I’ve started shortlisting ones that might be relevant, but you guys are going to have to pick out what it really was, since you were there. What happened, by the way? Sam?”

“Huh?” Sam sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”

“Sammy, let’s get you to bed. You can talk to us in the morning.” Sam made a faint noise of protest, but allowed his older brother to lead him by the hand to the room where he always slept while here. He was  _so_  tired, ever since he’d woken up but especially after the gas station, and his ribs hurt every time he tried to draw in a breath. It was like some parasite was sapping his strength. He didn’t bother with pyjamas and passed out almost immediately after hitting the sheets, fully clothed, with the afternoon sun shining brightly through the window.

“…Dean, what happened to him? What did he do?” Bobby was whispering, even though there wasn’t much chance Sam could hear their conversation from all the way across the house. Dean shook his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he does either, but he could be lying to us. Whatever it was, it took a heck of a lot out of him.”

“Well, of course it would! Dean, do you realise what this is? Sam’s got a one-way ticket straight to Hell!”

“No, he doesn’t. If Hell was the price of whatever deal he made, he’d be there by now. He seemed pretty certain of it.”

“…Morbid way of looking at it, but I suppose that’s right. The demons won’t trade a soul they have for a soul they want and give you time on top of it. But what about if he used someone else’s soul?”

“What, captured it and bartered it for mine?” Dean felt a sickness well up in his stomach because, if such a thing was possible, he knew Sam wouldn’t be above doing it. He wouldn’t be above doing it, if it would save his brother’s life. “Can you even remove a soul from its body?”

“There are… spells, but I’ve never gone looking for them. That’s dark magic, Dean. Evil magic. If Sam is caught up in that you’re going to have to watch him extra carefully. Soul power’s highly addictive and it warps the mind. Not to mention it’s the greatest violation possible to inflict upon another being, to use the power of a soul without its consent. Not even the demons go there; there’s a reason why they have to make deals rather than just kidnapping souls off the street.”

“They don’t seem to have many ethics problems with their vessels, though. I refuse to let you tell me they’re the good guys, Bobby. Just don’t.”

“Vessels are different; they’re using the body, not the soul. If they wanted access to the host’s soul power they’d  _need_ consent. And that’s the point: demons are the evilest creatures we know, and even they respect these laws. Out of fear of what would happen if they broke them.”

“What would happen? Let me guess, nobody knows.”

“Everyone who has tried dies a horrible, painful death. Human, demon, witch, monster. It’s said that God himself obliterates them from existence for daring to stand against his sacred command of Free Will.” Dean laughed hollowly.

“And does God happen to talk in a really high pitched whine and burn handprints into people’s skin?”

“Handprints?”

“Yeah, handprints.” Dean showed off his left arm, drawing a sympathetic hiss as Bobby saw the mark.

“Nobody has any clue what God looks or sounds like. Or even whether He exists. But there’s definitely  _something_  out there punishing people who practise soul magic without all parties consenting. And whatever it is, even high-tier demons run scared from it.”

“Well, that’s comforting. Are we going to have to kill this mystery mosquito monster before it gets Sam?”

“Dean, don’t kid yourself. If it got close enough to burn you like that, the reason you’re alive is because it wanted you alive. Sam too. Does he have one of those?”

“Not that I know of, but I haven’t exactly checked.”

“Then I suppose the mark was put on you by the being who raised you from Hell. That means a demon, and not the mosquito monster. Demons don’t do high-pitched noises. That’s the work of sirens and vampires and merfolk, not that I think the ringing you describe was either of those three, but it’s certainly not of demonic origin.”

“But how are we so sure it was a demon who raised me?”

“Who else, Dean? Who else?” Bobby held his head in his hands. “You have no idea what it’s been like, all these months. Sam took off within a week to who-knows-where, and he wouldn’t let me do a salt and burn. We had to bury you, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know. I had to dig myself out my own grave. Thanks for the lighter, by the way.”

“It was his idea. He said you’d need it once he was done getting you out.”

 

  
* * *

Sam woke up in darkness and freaked out for a reason he didn't know, scrabbling around looking for a lightswitch and tangling himself up more in the sheets. He couldn’t move. The lack of being able to see was suffocating. He yelped and there was a thump as he rolled off the bed and hit the floor.

Dean was there twenty seconds later, flipping on the lightswitch to see his little brother covered in sweat and shaking.

“You okay, Sammy?” Sam took deep, gulping lungfuls of air. In, out, in, out. Count backwards from ten. He could feel his heartbeat thumping in his chest.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Sorry to bother you.”

“Bad dream?” Dean’s face looked tired, gaunt, and concerned.

“…No, actually. I was sleeping really peacefully. It was just waking up that… I don’t know.” The darkness. It had choked him, made him believe his body wasn’t real, made him believe nothing was real. Sam had no clue why, as he wasn’t normally afraid of the dark. That would make him a rubbish hunter.

“Do you want me to move my bedding in here so you don’t have to fall asleep alone?”

“What time is it?” Sam had lost his watch, not that he remembered how. Dean presumably still had his, since Sam had changed the batteries and put it around his wrist before they put him in that coffin.

“Just after four in the morning.”

“Oh, then no. I’ve had quite a long sleep, so I’ll just stay up until the sun rises.”

“Alright then.” Dean turned and padded out the room, quietly squeaking the door closed behind him.

Sam watched him go, but didn’t turn the light off. He didn’t want to be in darkness right now. However, he did change out of his clothes and into a proper set of pyjamas before flopping on the bed and staring at the pattern of cracks on the ceiling. Four in the morning was a rather boring time; it was too late for a party but too early to be waking up.

He felt guilty when he realised why Dean had offered to sleep in his room, and why his brother’s face had looked so haunted. Dean had been in Hell; he had to have been having nightmares, or even flashbacks. And Sam had turned him away like the selfish little brother he was, all because he was afraid of seeming like a kid that was scared of the dark.

Which reminded him - whether it was a concussion or some magical spell, he still couldn’t access his memories of what he’d been doing before waking up in that graveyard. All he had to go on were his injuries, and to be honest they barely hurt now. A good night’s rest had healed them from sharp spikes of pain to almost nothing. Even the sunburn was gone, and his skin didn’t feel flushed with heat anymore. If anything it felt a bit colder than usual, but that was probably his imagination.

So what could it have been? Sam had developed a fear of darkness during what he mentally labelled as blank-out time, and he hadn’t missed the way that Dean’s handprint fit  _exactly_  under his hand, but those two facts stubbornly refused to piece themselves together into a narrative.

And who could he possibly have dealt with, anyway? The crossroads demons hadn’t wanted to take his deal, and he was still alive and kicking rather than screaming down in Hell. Whoever it was probably had a vested interest of their own in getting Dean out, but he couldn’t think of anyone like that who also had the power to do so. For some reason Meg Masters cropped up in his mind, but there’s no way she’d be the one. For starters, there’s no way he would trust her enough to deal with her.

Was there anyone who wasn’t a demon with the power to raise someone from Hell?

And then, at five o’clock on a Tuesday morning, hours before his alarm would wake him up, it hit Sam. Yes. Yes there was.


	5. Chapter 5

“I know who I dealt with.” was what Sam announced at breakfast later that morning when the sun was actually up, having spent most of the preceding time having a shower (he had an engine oil stain on his back and no idea why it was there) and reading a book in bed while waiting for his hair to dry. “At least, I think I know.”

“You’ve remembered something?” Dean was shoveling cornflakes in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for the past three months. That might be true, for all he knew.

“No, but I worked it out. This morning. Think about it - there’s only one guy we know with the power to raise you from Hell and the personality to do it without requiring a soul trade.” At Dean’s confused expression, Sam elaborated. “The Trickster? It must have been him.”

Dean snorted the milk in his cereal bowl out his nose.

“Really? The guy who you said killed me a hundred times?”

“To be fair, he also brought you back a hundred times too, so he’s our go-to expert on this stuff.”

“I dunno, Sammy.” Dean resumed eating like he hadn’t just inhaled half the contents of his bowl. “Bringing me back from the dead is one thing, but busting me out of Hell is a whole other level of difficulty. All those Tuesdays, you said he reset the day? So my contract didn’t actually come due. I’m not sure a pagan god has the mojo to do a storming of Hell.”

“He does.” Sam looked down at his toast, and something in his mumbled tone made Dean stop eating and look at him curiously.

“Sam, spit it out. What aren’t you telling me?”

“He raised you from Hell before, Dean. After Mystery Spot. The first time I broke out of the loop, you died that Wednesday. I spent months tracking him down to do a reset. And I even went to the crossroads to deal, and the demons there were pretty certain you were burning in Hell. They refused my offer then, too.”

“Sammy, you need to stop trying to make crossroads deals. It’s not healthy.”

Sam just stared at Dean, incredulously. "You don't exactly have the moral high ground here."

“Okay, touche.”

“But the Trickster got you out, and I didn’t even have to give him anything. He did it because it wasn’t fun any more. At the time I thought he meant he owed me a favour, but now I think he thinks it’s more boring when you’re dead.”

“What, so we’re a soap opera? Bobby!” Dean yelled across the house. “What’s this house warded against?”

“Everything!” came the reply.

“Pagan gods?”

“You betcha! Gods, demons, fairies, ghosts-”

“Alright, alright, we get it!” Dean turned back to Sam. “Okay, so he probably can’t see us here. Though he seems to defy all the usual categories, so no guarantees. What do we need to do now, then?”

“Try to find him, I guess. Ask if he was the one that did it. I learned quite a bit about hunting tricksters in those few months; I can probably pick up the trail quite quickly.”

“You do realise how badly this could backfire on us, right? If I’m really only alive because he was bored, then he might get bored of me now and decide to bump me off again.”

“It’s a chance I have to take. I have to  _know_ , Dean. It’s eating me from the inside, this blank-out. I want to know what happened, and more importantly why I don’t remember any of it. Call it curiosity, but it’s stronger than that.”

“Alright, fine. But before we do anything else, we need to do one thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Find my Baby.”

Five minutes later, they were gaping at the parking lot. More specifically, the 1967 Chevy Impala in the parking lot that had replaced the car they had driven here in. Dean had done a thorough check and had pronounced it either the genuine article or a damn good fake, pulling out a red lego brick from the vent as if to prove his point.

“…So now do you have any doubt that it’s the Trickster?”

“Well, I’m pretty convinced.”

Probably the most shocking thing, though, was what was lying in the boot.

_I happened to pick this up on my travels. I believe it would be wise to return it to you. Call it an advance gesture of good will._

_~C_

_P.S. I had some more ammunition made. Don’t use it all at once._

The note was pinned underneath the Colt and a little pack full of twenty bullets.

“You have any idea who this guy is, Sam?”

“No, no idea whatsoever. Maybe the Trickster’s real name begins with a C.”

“Maybe it doesn’t and he’s screwing with us.”

“That too.”

Dean grinned and plopped himself in the driver’s seat.

“You up for a spin?”

“Heck yeah.”

 _Ride the Lightning_  played on the radio as they drove off into the morning.

 

 

  
* * *

It took them just two weeks to find the Trickster, and in that time they salted and burned three ghosts, slayed a sprite that was causing will o’ wisps to lead people out through a marsh, and exorcised a group of demons while passing back through Illinois. All in all, they were on a  _roll_. Sam had missed this the last few months. Hunting made him feel like a person again rather than the dilapidated wreck he’d been.

Although Dean would later insist that it had been their tracking that had backed him into a corner and forced him to reveal himself, he and Sam both knew that it was really the Trickster who had found them, having obviously caught wind that they were looking.

However you viewed it, it didn’t change the fact that Sam woke up screaming one Tuesday morning when his alarm started playing  _Heat of the Moment_.

“Dude, what?” Dean clicked off the radio. “I mean, you’re fine to not like the song, but don’t you think that’s a bit of a strong reaction?”

“What’s the month? And year?” Sam was breathing hard. The room was the same one he’d gone to bed in, but he had to be sure-

“September. 2008. You feeling okay?”

“Never better. Dean, the Trickster’s hanging around.”

“How do you know that?”

“Trust me, I do. Be on your guard. And try not to die, will you?”

Dean rolled his eyes and then rolled out of bed. “I’ll get the Colt. Stake didn’t work on him last time but that gun should shoot him extra dead with a side order of crispy-fries.”

To both Sam and Dean’s discredit, it took them nearly five minutes from leaving the motel room to notice that something was terribly, horribly out of place with the world.

That happened when an eighteen foot tall  _five-headed dragon_  drove past in a car, and everyone on the sidewalk seemed to think it was normal.

“Um, excuse me Ma’am. What is a five-headed dragon doing driving a car?”

The woman Dean had approached actually looked _affronted_. “I do beg your pardon? Such racism is not tolerated here. Hiram McDaniels is a valued member of this community. Even if he has a tendency to overlook speed limit signs.”

“Right.”

“Have a nice day.” She walked off, leaving two bewildered hunters staring after her.

“…They’re all constructs. They have to be.”

The more Sam and Dean explored this new town they’d been transferred into the middle of, the stranger things got. The place was located in the middle of a desert, which sort of made sense since they’d gone to bed last night in Nevada (tracking the Trickster to Vegas), but the similarities ended there.

They didn’t even know where to start cataloguing the differences.

“Hello, you two! Would you like to read today’s StrexCorp Accepted Thoughts Newsletter? For the low, low price of a negative dollar! StrexCorp is everywhere. Believe in StrexCorp.” The hooded figure passing them on the street handed them both a yellow leaflet with a radiation symbol on it, as well as a dollar each.

Dean read through it with an incredulous look on his face.

“Seriously, man, this reads like cult propaganda. What the fuck is going on here. I don’t even.” He balled it up and threw it on the ground. It sprouted a red flag. “Oookay…”

“Let’s find a library. I have no idea what the Trickster wants us to do, but if he wants it that badly we’ll find out soon enough. Don’t pick up the litter. It gives me a really bad feeling.” The library turned out to be three blocks away, Sam having asked for directions from an old lady who went ghost-white before raising a shaking hand in that direction. The bell tinkled at they entered.

Half an hour later they ran out of the library covered in blood and orange goo, Dean nursing a black eye and a split lip, Sam limping with a chunk of flesh torn out of his right leg.

The old lady from before passed them again and, seeing their sorry states, invited them over to her house for a cup of tea and a bloodstone incantation to heal their injuries.

“Oh, yes, that would be very nice.” Sam’s voice was quite faint, and he thought it was a combination of circulatory shock from loss of bodily fluids and psychological shock from loss of sanity.

“No worries, dear. I’m quite aware that our only motel’s bloodstone circle is out of order at the moment - my angels get very many satanic prayers begging the City Council to fix the thing - and I never think the public circles do quite as good a job, you know? They need that personal touch.”

“Your angels?”

“Oh, my, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Old Woman Josie. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’ve been featured on the radio quite a lot.” The sounds of a helicopter beating filled the air overhead.

“You have  _angels_ , did you say?” Josie looked up at the sky and frowned.

“Of course not, silly. Everyone knows that angels don’t exist.”

It was a ten-minute walk back to her house. On the way they witnessed another hooded figure who teleported in front of them and offered them another leaflet and another dollar. This one was orange. According to Josie, many of the town’s less wealthy residents’ only source of income was from being handed the leaflets, and this was helping to increase market penetration in the town. Sam was too busy staring at the orange dollar bill and wondering if it was legal tender to care.

“Here we are. Oh, Erika! It’s nice to see you.” The…  _thing…_  clinked its six eyelids together in bemusement as it stared at the three of them. “Let me introduce you to Sam and Dean Winchester. Sam and Dean, this is the angel Erika.” They hadn’t told Josie their names. Nevertheless, Dean shook Erika’s hand and tried to look like this was something he did every day.

_“Grooooowl. Clink. Chicka-chicka Oink!”_

“Oh, Erika, that’s quite sweet. Happy Birthday Day to you too.” The angel clinked again and made a whirring sound, almost like a contented noise except it was most definitely mechanical. “Now, let’s get you two inside and fixed right up. Leaf juice, cactus soup or coffee?”

“Uh, coffee’s good for me, thanks.”

“Me too.”

The coffee tasted like pure ethanol with a hint of roasted beans. Runner beans. They didn’t drink it beyond the first sip. Josie busied herself with setting up her bloodstone circle (Sam had no clue what type of blood was on the stones, but they were soaked in it and dripping onto the carpet).

“Well, which one of you wants to go first? Just sit in the centre of the - oh. Sam, your leg.”

Sam looked down and gasped. His right leg, that had been chomped out by one of those monsters passing for librarians not an hour ago, had healed. There wasn’t even a scar or dried blood on his clothes. He reached down and poked it gingerly. No sign of swelling or inflammation, and it felt cool to the touch.

“How odd! I guess you’ll have to report to City Council for re-education.”

“What?”

“Erika, be a dear and show him the way to the Dog Park, will you? He’s not from around here, so I don’t think he knows where to go.”

The angel, if that was really what the hellish robotic android with six eyes was, clamped onto Sam’s arm with unnatural strength and began to drag him out of the room.

“Sammy!” Dean tried to grab him but his legs were stuck to the floor inside the bloodstone circle. “No! Don’t you dare!”

“…Dean, it’s okay.” The angel pulled insistently on Sam’s arm and he was forced to take steps back just to stay on his feet. “This is a Trickster’s construct, right? He’s not going to kill me. He probably just wants a one-on-one chat.”

“I’ll find you, alright? And then I’m gonna take this,” Dean patted his jacket where the Colt was, “And shoot him in the heart. Then between the eyes for good measure.”

“I’ll hold you to that. See you later Dean, I guess.” Sam let Erika drag him across the threshold and out into the street. Really, he wasn’t even scared anymore. This day had been so far off the crazy scale he was desensitized to it all now. He was probably going to wake up tomorrow and realise it had all been a dream.

“Um, so, where’s this dog park? Is it very far from here?”

_“Raaaaaaaaasp. Clink.”_

“Right, thanks for the answer.” Looming ahead of them was a menacing wall that Sam thought was probably the Dog Park, and he knew now to mentally capitalise those words. There was a sign with a dog on it, but someone had painted a crossed out circle over the picture in red paint that smelled like the same thing on the bloodstones.

Erika stopped at the entrance to the Dog Park.

“What, you’re not going in?”

_“Raaaaaasp.”_

“Oh, okay then.” Sam turned and walked calmly through the entrance. The air temperature dropped about twenty degrees and when he turned to look back, there was no door in the wall behind him.

 

 

  
* * *

“Sammy! What a surprise it is to see you here, I say!” The Trickster patted the seat next to him on the park bench that had appeared out of nowhere. “Have a seat. So tell me, how are you liking this town? It’s rather a pet project of mine.”

Sam didn’t sit down.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that. We’re  _best buddies_ , you and me.”

“What do you want from us?” The Trickster hummed and hawed, and eventually gave a shrug.

“…Nnnothing. Question is, what do you want from me? Word’s out that you were searching for yours truly. Also, don’t think I didn’t see that little stunt with the healing. How did you do it, by the way?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course  _you_  don’t, Salmon. I wasn’t talking to you.” The Trickster reached out a hand and traced Sam’s collarbone, suddenly making him feel very uncomfortable. “You may have hidden your Grace real well, Luci, but that chicken scratch is something I’d recognize anywhere. Can’t believe I didn’t figure out something was up from the moment I stuck you guys in here. Knew there had to be a reason you weren’t pinging on the radar. Come on out, I want a chat.”

“My name’s not Lucy. And it’s not Salmon either.”

“Oh, seriously? The silent treatment? Very well.” Suddenly there was a knife in the Trickster’s hand. It looked… well, it looked pretty deadly. “I guess I’ll have to appeal to your sense of self-preservation.” He raised the blade and Sam backed away, until he came up against the wall (a corner?!) and realized there was nowhere to run.

The Trickster smirked, teleported to right in front of him, and slashed down with the knife. Sam’s eyes went wide…

…Then they flashed bright white, and he was blocking Gabriel’s blade with his own.

“Theeere we go. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Lucifer shrugged and dispersed his sword back to the nothingness it had come from. He leaned back against the construct of a wall and crossed his arms disapprovingly.

“You realize that now I’m going to have to wipe even more of Sam’s memories so he doesn’t get suspicious, right? I don’t like doing that. It’s too much of a deception.”

“Well, boo hoo. So, come on, I want the full story. How are you not still in the Cage?”

“That’s for me to know, Sam to find out, and you to buzz off and stop pestering me about before I smite you so hard your Grace melts Hawaii.” Gabriel pouted.

“Oh, come on, bro. This is the turn-up of the millennium! I’ll keep your secret, but only if I get all the juicy details. Otherwise I’ll run off crying to the rest of the family, and Mike will  _hunt you down_  with the righteous fury he gets going when he’s got a job to do. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“I don’t believe you, Gabriel.”

Gabriel smiled that beaming smile he always used when he knew something you didn’t. “Aah, but knowing how volatile I can be, do you  _really_  want to risk calling my bluff?”

“Fine. The bare bones of it was that Sam got me out of the Cage in exchange for raising Dean from Hell. Happy?”

“No, but you’re a boring old sod so it’ll just have to do. How’s the whole ‘true vessel’ thing holding up? I’m kind of jealous, I have to admit.”

Lucifer smiled.

“Sam’s great; the body’s just what I’d imagined my physical form to be. I haven’t introduced myself yet - well, I have but he doesn’t remember it - and I’m waiting for the right moment to have a little chat with him, since we’ll be together a while and I want to make a good first impression. You still jumping about like an STD or have you settled down too?”

“Still jumping, but I’ve been in this guy a few years now and he’s not done too badly, so I think I might stay in here a bit longer. Gotta build up a face reputation.” Gabriel had the annoying extra power of being able to take any living human as his vessel as long as they had a soul and it consented, rather than being restricted to any particular bloodline. It had infuriated the Host of Heaven to no end, because there was no way they could force him to reveal himself by kidnapping all the suitable candidates. “Are you drinking demon blood?”

“Not at the moment, but I’m going to need some pretty soon so I can upgrade the body and not be stuck with pathetic human senses. Getting out of the Cage clipped my wings and I burned up a load of Grace busting the ceiling of Hell, so I’ve been laying low and recuperating in this vessel, rather than hunting demons and causing a stir. It’s the next best thing to rejoining the Host in terms of access to purified soul power, but we both know how it would go down if I tried that.”

“Hah. To be honest, you could probably bluff Mike into believing God granted you his forgiveness and he’d believe you, the poor sod.”

“And take up my duties as Archangel? No thanks. I’d rebel again in four days flat.”

“I know that feel, bro.” Gabriel yawned and stretched. Lucifer watched him with narrowed eyes, still leaning against the wall.

“Nice place you have here. Is it original or copied off some TV show?”

“Oh, this? This is all me. I was thinking of marketing some books set in this town or, I dunno, a podcast. Did you know that one of the people out there is an actual person with a soul, and not just a construct? Well, two, counting Dean-o. Some scientist wandered in through a wormhole he created by accident, and I’m letting him stay. He’s being  _such_  a good sport about everything, it’s really quite hilarious.” He sniffed imaginary tears out of his eyes. “Did you say you were the one that busted the ceiling of Hell? The Host has been squawking about that for the past two weeks. Gives me a headache.”

“I know. I am still connected to their song. If anything I feel rather bad for Ezekiel; I should have told him that his superiors would go after him once they figured out he had developed a soul.”

“Nah, he’ll be fine. The kid’s hiding out somewhere in New Zealand at the moment and I only know that because he accidentally busted a hiding place of mine while looking for one for him. The Host is too ethnocentric to go looking for him there.”

“Well, if that’s all…” Lucifer turned around and pressed his palm into the wall. It began to waver and dissolve under his fingers, giving way to empty and colourless space.

“Oh, not so fast, Luci. We need to have a chat about the Apocalypse.”

“Really? I had not thought there was anything needing to be said. If I wanted this world to die it would already be dead. I have no interest in fulfilling my destiny as bringer of the Apocalypse. Never been one to follow Dad’s plan, have I?”

“The angels and demons are both breaking seals in an attempt to release you from your Cage.”

“Yes, I know. I can feel it.” The wall flickered out to nothingness, before flickering back in as Gabriel stuck a hand there and made it reassert itself.

“Well, what do we do when they find you’re not there? I think you know the chaos that would cause.”

“I know, but I don’t care. You can try to stop the seals breaking to delay that moment if you want. Castiel has been pursuing Dean and Sam in an attempt to recruit them and prevent the apocalypse, which I imagine they’ll be on board with, so they will likely be doing the same thing.”

“Castiel? Oh, the angel that got assigned guard duty on the righteous man and then promptly lost him. God, that was  _hilarious_. He caught up with you yet?”

“No, not yet. Hunting the Trickster has doubled up as an effective evasive tactic, and the sigils on our ribs hide us from his sight.”

“Which reminds me, dear brother.” Gabriel shoved his hand over Lucifer's heart and Lucifer huffed in annoyance. “Just etching a little something of my own in there so I can find you when you inevitably screw things up for everyone. Call it insurance.”

“Fine. Right now, my vessel’s brother and brother’s vessel is looking for you. Call it retribution for making Sam distressed with the attempted stabbing.”

“What do you mean, retri-?” Lucifer had disappeared from where he was pinned under Gabriel’s hand. “Oh, sonova-” The wall flickered out again too, leaving him face to face with the person standing right in front of the Dog Park. Dean had the Colt ready and aimed. Gabriel tried to click - no show, Lucy was blocking his magic. “Now, we can talk about this-”

“Hello, Trickster. This is for Sam. Die.”

Dean shot the Trickster in the heart.

“And stay dead.”

Again between the eyes.

The whole town flickered out to nothing.

 

 

  
* * *

“Sammy? Wake up!” Sam opened his eyes to the ceiling of his motel room and just below it, his brother looking at him with a concerned expression on his face. “You’re okay. That’s good.”

“Where are we? Still in Trickster town?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve looked out the window and this is definitely Vegas, not... wherever that place was. What happened when he dragged you off?”

Sam thought hard.

“I can’t remember. I went through the gate to that park and then I woke up here. No idea what happened in between. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I shot him. No more Trickster. And the whole blanking out thing points to the Trickster being the one who busted you out of Hell, since you blanked out there as well.”

“Did you manage to find out why?”

Dean shook his head. “I didn’t manage to find out anything. Hell, I still have no idea what was going on. You really don’t remember what you did?”

“I did something?”

“Yeah, you showed up dressed like those hooded figures we saw around town and grabbed me out of the circle, teleported me to this really high wall, stuck the Colt in my hand and made me take aim, then broke the wall down with some psychic punch and vanished. Trickster stared at me like I was mad, but I took the opportunity and shot him. Still don’t remember?”

“Nada. That might not even have been me; just a construct made to look like me.”

“Then why would it help us?”

“Maybe it realized what it was, developed free will, and decided to buck the trend.” There was a drawn-out moment of silence. “Didn’t want to be a slave to destiny. And wanted to save its brother.”

“Well, if that’s what it was, I can definitely agree with the motives.”

“Why  _did_  we kill the Trickster, though?”

Dean gave Sam one of those looks that was best described as a cross between wait-what and are-you-kidding-me.

Sam shrugged. “If he raised you from Hell, he’s on our side. And Lilith is still out there, so we’re going to need all the allies we can get to take her down.”

“Allies? Dude, he stuck us in crazy town and wiped your mind. I’d possibly -  _possibly_  - consider him an ally if he had met up with us like a grown-up and promised he wasn’t going to kill anyone else. Since he stuck us in his own personal doll house again? Nix nada nope. Besides, he’s dead now, so whatever you promised him in your deal he’s not gonna be around to collect it. You’re safe.”

“If he is dead. He’s worse than a cockroach, I swear.”

“Sammy, the Colt kills  _everything_. Either he’s dead or he’s God and messing with us. Let’s base our working theory on him  _not_ being God, shall we?”

The radio alarm started playing,  _Only Time Will Tell_  by Asia. It was seven o’clock, on… Sam checked. Seven o’clock on Tuesday. The entire previous day hadn’t existed.

“Great. Now I’m just wondering if that really happened or it was some kind of crazy dream.”

“You and me both. Get the Colt out and check how many bullets we still have.”

They had eighteen. Apparently the Trickster really was dead. Dean also found an Ipod, of all things to find, tucked next to the gun. The only things on there were a series of radio podcasts, and  _Heat of the Moment_ , rather tipping the both of them off as to whose it was. Another letter was tucked next to it.

_To be honest, I’m bored of being the Trickster. So this is me, officially resigning from the job. Good luck Sam, hope your flatmate doesn’t rake you over the coals too much, and Happy Hunting!_

_~G_

“Oh, so I’m apparently your flatmate now. Charming.”

“Is this meant to be a suicide note? Looks like the Trickster  _wanted_  to die. Well, that would explain the construct of me. Is that a G or a really ornate C?”

“It’s not the same handwriting as the letter posted before. Same format, though.” Dean threw the paper down on the bed in frustration. “This keeps raising more questions than it’s answering.”

“…Do you want to skip out of town today and go hunt something else, or are you up for some card-counting? We are in Vegas, after all.”

A shit-eating grin came over Dean’s face. “You know me too well. Heck yeah!”

They didn’t get back to hunting for five whole days.


	6. Chapter 6

“Saaaaammy.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to sleep.” Sam pressed the pillow over his ears and shifted away from his brother.

“Come on, up. Bobby has a case for us, and this one’s a doozy.”

“Errrgh…” He sat up, grateful that his head didn’t start spinning. “What is it? Shifter, demon, wolf?”

“You really don’t remember? You must have been out of it.”

“What?”

“You were sleepwalking, Sammy. Or sleep-internetting. Go check your browser history. Don’t worry,” Dean held up a hand at Sam’s mortified expression, “I already looked and there’s no porn. Apparently even in Vegas you research in your  _sleep_. Lame, if you ask me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Did you go to sleep last night in clothes?” Sam looked down at what he was wearing and held his head in one hand - apparently sleep-him had no fashion sense at all - before flopping back onto the pillow with a groan.

“Go on, spill. What’s the case?”

 

 

  
* * *

They ended up in southern Wyoming,  _far_  too close for Sam’s comfort to the Devil’s Gate, investigating the high rates of demonic possession that were happening there. It was pretty obvious why - hello, door to Hell just north of here - but the how eluded both of them. The hunting community had made damn well sure to get those railway lines repaired, so the demons couldn’t be filtering out and not dispersing quickly enough. They had to be gathering around the outside of the trap. This was borne out by the pattern of killings, cattle deaths and weird electrical storms that were plaguing the area (the local news hadn’t missed the eerie similarities to what had gone on a year ago and were trumpeting it all over the conspiracies section of their website), none of which occurred inside the lines of the Devil’s Trap.

Somehow, demons were congregating outside of the doorway to Hell. Which was bad, bad news. As soon as Bobby got wind of it, which was two days after the first human’s death but eight after the first cow’s, he phoned up the Winchesters and yelled at them to stop wasting time in Vegas and go investigate.

How were there so many demons around? Sure, the last time this gate had been opened hundreds had been released, but most of those had been trapped and exorcised by the hunters who went on overdrive trying to track them all down. The question of why now was also bothering them. As far as they knew nothing particularly demonic was going on.

“I don’t like this, Dean. The demons are going to recognise us. They’re going to be pissed at you escaping Hell scot free and we don’t have the Trickster watching our backs. If we’re not careful, they’ll drag you back in.”

“Nah, you worry too much. The interior of the trap is fine. They can’t get to the door.”

Sam finished marking on all of the incidents - cattle deaths, murder scenes where sulfur had been found, shattered streetlights - on a copy of the map they’d drawn the trap on in board marker. Rawlins, Casper, Lander, Riverton - all towns close to the trap, all reporting missing persons and suspicious murders. Sure enough, not one incident was inside the trap, but they became more frequent the nearer you got and many of them happened right next to a railway line.

“Has it ever struck you as odd that Samuel Colt picked a devil’s trap as the symbol to use? Why not a straight up pentagon or an inverse trap, since he was more interested in keeping stuff out than keeping it in.” The classic pentagram-inside-circle combo worked brilliantly for trapping demons inside it, but the shape didn’t actually provide a barrier to entry. Barrier to exit, yes. “I mean, once Jake opened it, even the symbol reinforcement didn’t stand a chance against Hell’s army. Colt must have known it wouldn’t. So why bother?”

“Better trying and failing than not trying at all, I guess. You’re reading too much into this, Sammy.” Dean rubbed his eyes. “I think I’m gonna order pizza. You want the usual?”

“Yeah, usual’s fine. It’s still bugging me, though.”

What was even odder was the pattern of demon-related disturbances around the rest of the country. Normally, since they’d unleashed all those demons, there were at least three or four ongoing cases at any one time, so the hunting community was kept busy by demonic activity alone. Now, though? Nobody they phoned up had even  _seen_  a demon in nearly a fortnight. Those three in Pontiac were the last ones and then nothing in the rest of the country.

All except here, in southern Wyoming, where demon activity had skyrocketed so high it was making the national news, with nearly twenty people reported missing yesterday and thirteen the day before that. It couldn’t be a coincidence. All the demons on the continent were drawing together just outside the Devil’s Gate, for no reason Sam could discern.

He couldn’t deny that it spooked him.

They stayed a night in Rawlins, then headed north up the highway the next morning with the sun on their side. After much deliberation, they’d decided to bring the Colt with them for protection rather than risk it getting stolen. After all, it appeared the trap’s interior hadn’t yet been breached, so they should be okay carrying the key to the Gate.

Nothing jumped out of the bushes at them, and when they crossed the first set of iron lines Sam forced himself to mentally relax. Second set, putting them squarely in the trap’s interior pentagon, and he was getting antsy again. The cemetery wasn’t exactly the calmest of memories for him, and neither was it for Dean. Sam could tell by the grip his brother’s hands had on the wheel of the Impala.

“…Holy fuck.”

Sam had to silently agree. There wasn’t much else to say.

The old cowboy cemetery where the Devil’s Gate had resided… wasn’t there. Someone… something… had torn up the ground in a massive localized earthquake, spilling rubble and uprooting trees. More than that, it had been  _superheated_ and the dirt had melted into puddles of crystalline structures which fused together and filled the cracks with dirty brown glass. There was no sign of the door or the lock. To be honest, Sam doubted there was even a door here anymore. What had happened? They hadn’t left it this way.

“Dean, it looks like something busted out and collapsed the house behind them.”

“I know.”

“Do you think… the Trickster?”

“Maybe. It’s not his style.”

“…The Mosquito?” They still hadn’t worked out what the hell that thing had been.

“Possibly. Let’s go check out one of the towns.”

“Dean, are you okay?”

“Hmm?” Dean turned around to face him. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He didn’t. He looked on the verge of crying, and Sam couldn’t tell why. “So, um… which town? I don’t have a preference.”

 

 

  
* * *

They ended up in Casper, just north-east of the Gate-that-wasn’t, and parked the Impala in a pay and display. Dean would have insisted they find somewhere better to store the car, but they had both seen the graffiti on the meter.

A Devil’s Trap.

On inspection of the town, the symbol was spray-painted everywhere. On houses, on walls, on roads. The simple pentacle sometimes, but sometimes it was a larger and more complex form. There were other symbols as well, ones Sam didn’t recognize, so he sent a picture to Bobby and he came back with a shaky identification after nearly two hours of research: angel wards.

Or they would be, at least, if angels  _existed_. Bobby was pretty sure they were fictional, said he'd only found a match to the symbol in the book of some guy the hunting community had declared a hoax, but even he had to admit he was beginning to wonder. Then, of course there was the fact that they hadn’t seen a single human being for the past six hours.

“What’s going on in this town?”

Sam clicked his phone shut and they split up so he and his brother could cover more ground. Their plan was simple: search out as many demons as possible, lure them into the traps scattered around the place, and exorcise the Hell out of them - literally. Nice, simple, and able to be abandoned on the fly if and when they realized how bad of a plan it was.

That moment came when the first demon showed up, struggling pathetically in one of the traps,  _eyes melted out of her sockets_.

“Who are you? Kill me!” She flailed weakly and Sam couldn’t stop himself feeling a twinge of pity. “I want to die. Kill me, mortal.”

“Easy there. I’m not going to kill you. I can’t.” Her head whipped around blindly to face his direction.

“God? God, is that you?”

“I’m not God. I’m just Sam.” She drew in a shocked, gurgling gasp.

“Samael. God. You’ve answered our prayers! It’s too late for me; I want to die before they come back to finish me off. Listen, please - you need to  _open the gate_ , they’re picking us off one by one and we’ve all backed into a corner, it’s a slaughter out here. Our only sanctuary is below the fourth circle. Please, please help us.”

“Easy there. Who’s after you?” He didn’t care that he was mollycoddling a demon, because from the looks of it there was something  _far_  more dangerous out there right now.

“It’s  _them_. They’re walking the Earth. It’s the end of days. Listen! ”

The streetlight above them blew, and suddenly the air around them was filled with a ringing he’d heard before, at the gas station. Sam felt his blood run cold (it was like a wave of ice in his heart spreading through his body and raising goosebumps along his skin).

"Just leave me and go. They can’t catch you; you’re more important than all of us together, Samael. Go!”

Another streetlight blew. Then the windows shattered in the houses on either side.

Sam ran.

In some distant part of his mind that wasn’t fearing for his life, he feared for Dean too.

He found his brother maybe half an hour later, having managed to outrun whatever was causing the ringing. The area behind him had lit up in a huge flash of light and he suspected that if he’d turned around he would have been blinded just like that demon had been.

Dean was clearly shaken when Sam caught up to him, the Colt clenched hard in his hand and nervously looking around corners with eyes shielded by a forearm.

“Dude, I don’t know what it is but something joined the hunt here before we did. I’ve seen corpses with burned eyeballs and things that used to be corpses but now are just streaks of blood smeared over the traps. It’s a battlefield.”

“Not a battlefield. It’s too one-sided for that. Dean, it’s a massacre.”

 

 

  
* * *

They followed the lines of blood and the Devil's Traps until they thinned out, replaced by more angel wards of different shapes and sizes. Bobby said when they called him that different name-glyphs were inscribed on each one. Were the demons somehow using them to pray for help? Was the Mosquito using them to herd the demons around? Sam tried to study one close up but was struck by a wave of nausea as something twisted in his gut and, after that, they kept away. Whatever these symbols did, neither of them wanted to be on the receiving end of it.

Dean ended up leading them to the entrance to what looked like a warehouse, with another angel ward inscribed in chalk on the rusty door. The lock had been ripped off and dropped carelessly on the floor.

“Sam, there’s something in here,” he whispered. “I saw movement in the window. I’m going in.” Before Sam could protest, he threw open the steel door with a grating shriek and stormed in, gun out and ready. “Alright you sons of bitches, who’s first?”

Sam ran in behind him, but what he saw made him pull up short.

At least fifty humans were huddled together on the floor of the warehouse, angel wards written around them, staring at Dean with terror on their faces.

“Michael. Oh hell it’s Michael!” Dean furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Who’s Michael? And how did you guys all- oh, I get it.  _Christo_.” One hundred eyes flashed black. Dean took three steps back and the hand on the Colt started shaking. They had eighteen bullets. There were no devils traps in the area. There was no way they could fight all of them off. “Oh, right.  _That_ Michael. Turns out he’s just on his way here to kill you all, but he’ll be real pissed if you lay a hand on either of us. Ain’t that right, Sam?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Scuse me for a sec.” Sam poked his head out the door and yelled at nothing in particular, “Hey, Michael! Hurry up, will ya? Dean’s waiting for you!”

“Samael? You’re working together with  _him_?” The raw fear in the demon’s voice gave Sam a rush of powerful feeling and he outright beamed at the group of demons on the floor.

“Hell yeah I am. Neither of us are that fond of you demon lot, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

The betrayal showing on the demons’ faces just made it all better.

The wind picked up around them, which shouldn’t be possible since they were  _inside_ , and they heard the shattering sound of another streetlight. Ringing filled the air except this time it was louder, and not quite as high pitched - more a scream than a whine. Dean’s mouth opened in wonder.

“Sammy, you hear that?”

“Of course I can!” Sam clamped his hands over his ears but that didn’t do much to block the noise. It was reverberating through his skull.

“It’s  _singing_  to me, Sammy, I have to go to him. I’m so sorry, you can do this on your own, but I have to go.” Sam didn’t know what to do and the ringing prevented him thinking straight, so he just stared incredulously as Dean pushed past him and through the door. “I have to do this.”

Siren. That was the only possible explanation that came to mind.

_Siren._

Why the  _fuck_  did these things happen at the worst times possible? Sam was left alone in the warehouse with fifty terrified demons, no way to kill them, and no idea what to do.

And then, as the air around and through him chilled and a light shone behind his eyes, he knew exactly what should be done.

 

 

  
* * *

Dean stumbled back into the warehouse, gasping and barely able to breathe, black spots burned into his retinas, his ears still filled with the echo of the song.

“Sam? Sammy? Sa-!” He cut off, not sure what he was seeing.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam looked up and there was a strange light dancing around his irises, visible even across fifty feet. “Thanks for saying no. Made things a lot easier for me.”

Then he dropped the demon’s arm and flopped over into a puddle of blood.

The room was filled with corpses. Not a single demon was left alive, not even the one Sam had been drinking blood from - ew - but there were seventeen humans huddled up against the far wall. They did not react to the Lord’s name, and instead stared at both Winchesters as if they were harbingers of death.

“What happened here?” Dean rushed over to Sam. His pulse was racing steady and strong, and he was taking deep breaths with a smile on his face. One of the humans answered him, raising a shaking arm to point.

“He, h-he saved us. He’s the Devil. They were crawling about in all of us and then he told them to leave and they  _left_. Oh god, there was so much smoke. It was like everything was burning, but there wasn’t any fire. Please, I’m not insane, you have to believe me! There were  _demons_. It wasn’t us, it wasn’t!”

“Yeah, demons. I get that. Sammy, wake up!” Dean slapped his brother’s face. No response. He dragged his brother out of the puddle of blood and arranged him in the recovery position on the floor. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to hurt you. I need to know  _exactly_ what just went down. Was he speaking something in latin when he made the demons leave? Some sort of spell?”

“N-no. He just yelled at them to leave now before he killed them all, and they flew. And he… the blood, I think he’s a vampire. Some of us didn’t make it when… when the demons left. They died. And he was  _drinking their blood._ I don’t know, I didn’t see, I…”

Sam stirred, a shiver running along the length of his body before he shot up into a sitting position, looking around with crazed eyes.

“Dean!”

“Sammy?” Sam jumped to his feet.

“Dean, we have to go now. They know we’re in here; I can hear them all the way across the city. We have to leave!”

“Woah, not so fast. You were  _drinking blood_ , bro. I’m gonna need an explanation.” Sam wiped his mouth and then stared at the smear of red on his arm as if he didn’t believe it was true.

“I… it helps, Dean. It makes me stronger. It brings back the visions Azazel gave me and I can make demons do what I want them to. I had fifty to deal with. What else was I supposed to do? Oh god, it’s itching under my skin. I don’t know how much… it’s more than I ever had before. I swear, I didn’t mean to have that much; it was like someone else was controlling my body, like a trance or something, I don’t know.”

“And somehow that excuses  _killing people?_ ”

“I only drank from the ones whose vessels were already dead. Their skin looks different, Dean, I can tell. Their blood tastes different too. It’s more rotten and more powerful, and I have killed nobody today. Not even a demon. Believe me.” Sam ran to the door and pushed it open - without touching it, he simply stuck out his hand and it flew away and broke off its steel hinges. “Come on! My ears can hear the Mosquitoes, and there’s one just south of here flying north. It’s looking for those demons, and I have no idea what it’ll do to us once it figures out I let them escape.”

“Fine. You guys over there, listen up, because I am only saying this once.  _Get the hell out of here._  Take a car and drive out of this state so you don’t get caught in the crossfire. If you don’t have a car then sucks to be you, but stock up on supplies and walk south-west to the Devils Gate rock. As soon as you cross a railway line, you’ll be safe. I have no clue how long this is gonna last,” Dean peeked out the door, checking the street was clear, “but from the way it’s going down I’d say no more than another week. So good luck.” He ran out the door, Sam hot on his heels.

They sprinted up the street, not stopping to catch their breath until they were well away from that awful blood-drenched place. The street around them was littered with shattered glass and devil’s traps.

“Where did you go, when that siren called you?” Dean gulped in air, leaning on a lampost, and shook his head.

“Not a, hah, not a siren. One of the Mosquitoes. It was so bright, and it told me to leave you behind to rot because you weren’t good enough. I told it to go fuck itself.” He wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. “Hey, can we slow down? You keep getting ahead and I swear nobody should be able to run that fast for that long.”

“It’s the demon blood.” Sam was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Coursing through me. I can share its power with you if you want, but you'll have to drink my blood.”

“Ew, no.”

“Then I suggest we get going, because we have two minutes tops before the Mosquito sweeps this area.” Dean stumbled his weight onto his legs again and took off again. “This way; there’s a shortcut though this side street!”

The windows of the Impala, thankfully, were intact and not broken like all the other glass around. Sam jumped in the driver’s seat this time because Dean was barely able to stand by the time they got there. They sped off out of town and did not look back.

Well, Dean did, and he saw a flash of lightning split the sky. The tang of burning ozone reached them even here.

 

 

  
* * *

Sam stopped the car once they’d crossed into South Dakota, pulling up off the interstate onto some random track. He then proceeded to get out and walk shakily around the back of the Impala, eyes darting left, right, left, right-

“Sam, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m h-having a reaction, Dean. To the demon blood. I can’t stop-” One of his feet started tapping a rhythm on a tree stump. Blam, blam, bla-bla-blam. “I’m  _seeing_  things, things that haven’t happened. But they will. Is it raining? Has it started raining yet? I’ve been seeing it on the windscreen for an hour.”

Dean stuck his head out the window and looked at the sky. The sun was setting with the reddest sunset he had ever seen in his life, like tendrils of fire were curling up into the sky. There were clouds off to the north-east being blown this way, but only a few wisps overhead.

“Sammy, it’s not gonna rain. You’re hallucinating.”

“I-I know! Dean, I can’t drive like this. It’s getting worse all the time. My skin itches so, so badly and I want to scratch it all off. Help me.” Blam, blam, bla-bla-blam. Smack. Sam stomped on a stick and it broke in two. Dean got out of his side of the car.

“Okay, stay calm. I’ll get you through this. How many fingers am I holding up?” He held up five.

“Seven! You’ve got two behind your back. Now nine. We haven’t got long; he’s going to appear soon. I might not be able to last that long, so you have to know. Promise me?” Dean stared. Sam’s pupils were blown open to maximum size and his jawbone was shivering. He looked like he was having some kind of fit.

“I promise you. Now I need you to sit down in the passenger seat, Sam, just here. I’m going to take you to Bobby’s and we’ll get all of this sorted out.” Sam whimpered, but sat down and hugged himself tightly

“You can’t go! He’s coming. He’s flying in towards us. He’s here for you, Dean. You have to meet with him or he’ll keep pursuing you everywhere. He lost the trail once, but he’s not gonna lose it again.”

“Sam, who is it? What are you seeing?”

 _“Castiel!”_  Sam shrieked, and the clouds burst open with lightning as a downpour began. He started sobbing and curled up in the seat, violent tremors wracking him as drops of rain hit the windscreen.

“Sammy!” Dean tried to lay a hand on him but Sam jerked away from his touch. His skin was burning up with fever and sweaty. “Sam, it’s okay, I swear I’ll-” He stopped. Went completely still. Listened.

Then Dean turned around, rain running in little streams down his skin, and faced the man that had appeared out of nowhere.

He was fifty feet away and still, a battered old trenchcoat flapping in the sudden swirling wind, and his gaze did not falter with blinks or breaks. The storm seemed to move to his will, each raindrop spinning around but not touching him, like he was in the eye of a tornado. Dean took two steps forward.

He vanished in a flutter of nonexistent wings.

“What…” A ghost? A demon, or worse, one of those  _things_  that had slaughtered the demons in Casper? In the back of his mind Dean knew what they had to be, all the signs pointed to it, but he refused to acknowledge it. “Show yourself!”

“You are a very difficult man to find, Dean Winchester, when you do not wish to be found.”

Dean had the Colt out in one fluid motion, spinning on his heel to point it at whoever - whatever - was behind him. The voice was gravelly, like the vocal chords were being forced to accommodate a speaking style they weren’t used to. Like a vessel was being possessed by this creature.

“Give me  _one_  good reason, right now, why I shouldn’t blow you to smithereens for what you just did to my brother.”

“Many things cannot kill me, but that gun is one of the few that can. However, I have no fear of death and if I die, those that command me will send another in my stead. I have been lenient, and they will not be. You would be lucky to see the light of day again.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is  _Castiel._ ” The word was accented, as if translated from another language by a non-native speaker. The vowel sounds didn’t quite meet up with their english counterparts.

“Yeah, I got that. Was that you killing the demons back in that town?”

“No. I merely observed Uriel and Zachariah’s work. I did not interfere; my purpose now is to guard the Righteous Man.”

“And that’s Sam.” There was a second of silence. Castiel actually looked speechless.

“No, Dean. You are the Righteous Man, and you must be protected from all harm lest Michael require his sword in future.”

“I know what you are. You’re the one who pulled my ass out of Hell, aren’t you? The one that left this print on my arm.” Dean rolled up his sleeve to show the scar from the burn. Castiel looked at it curiously, with a head-tilt that reminded Dean of a little bird. “And the one who shattered the windows at that gas station.”

“No, I did not raise you from Hell, Dean Winchester, though destiny dictates that I should have been the one. Another of my kind interfered. Ezekiel. He disobeyed strict orders to do so. We are… tracking him.” Dean laughed, then put the gun to Castiel’s head. He did not react. “I am a soldier of Heaven. I do not fear death, for I will be granted peace in the afterlife.”

“You’re an angel.” There. He had said it. The word felt thick and heavy in his mouth, laden with questions and accusations. “That’s bullshit. Angels don’t exist. They can’t.”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“Why? Goddammit, why? Why then, is there so much  _evil_  in the world? Can’t you just make it all  _stop_!”

“It is not our place to decide what should and should not be. We are weapons, not the minds that bear them.”

Sam shuddered and screamed, and Dean was instantly crouched next to him,stroking his forehead with a rain-soaked hand, terrified at how much his temperature had skyrocketed in the past few minutes.

“Sammy, just breathe, okay? Look, I don’t care if you’re Castiel the angel or Casper the friendly ghost, I need you to  _heal him_. He’s dying, because of your lot!”

“I have not harmed Sam Winchester; he has brought this on himself. I can burn the taint from his body, but his soul will also inflame. He will be left as nothing more than an animal with only a semblance of his past being.” Castiel actually raised a hand like he was going to do it.

“No! Fuck you, go away then. I have no use for you, and I can take care of myself. I don’t need a guardian angel watching my every move; Sam’s the one that needs protecting. And guess what? _You can’t do it_. So buzz off, you mosquito parasite.”

“Very well.” Castiel straightened to full height and took a step back. The rain was still cascading down in sheets, and both of them were soaked to the bone. “Ezekiel has marked your ribcages with Enochian sigils that hide you from all sight bar the mortal plain. Because of this, even prayer in your time of greatest need will not be able to reach us. I will watch you from afar and protect you as best I can, but should you need to summon me to your side you must first break one of your ribs, then pray.”

“You’re serious.”

Castiel didn’t even bother to reply. He just vanished with a flapping sound that was lost in a boom of thunder. Sam coughed and spluttered rainwater and blood down his chin. Dean got in the driver’s seat, slammed both doors shut, and drove off with the screech of wheels on dirt.

 

 

  
* * *

“…Where are…”

“Sammy, are you still awake? Don’t go to sleep. We’ll be two hours tops. Don’t go to sleep.”

“…Who? I don’t…” Sam wasn’t responding to him. He was hallucinating, having a nightmare. “No, it hurts… you can’t…”

“Hang in there, okay? You said no more Crossroads deals. Well, you gotta keep your end of the bargain and not die.”

“Can’t remember… don’t know if I…” A heaving wheeze and a wracking cough, and there was blood on the inside of the windscreen. “Please… help… Dean can’t see me go…”

“That’s right, Sammy! I am  _not_  letting you die on my watch. Bobby will know how to fix this. Two hours. Hold on.”

“Will it help? If I…” The rest of Sam’s speech was lost in a gurgle, then a gasping breath in. “Okay, okay… I will. I…” He fell silent.

“Sam, talk to me.” A little brother taking to nothing was far better than a little brother not talking to anything. Sam shifted around and opened his eyes. They were red, puffy, and the eyelashes were cluttered up with gunk. Nevertheless, there was a spark in them that hadn’t been present before.

“Dean… we’ll be okay.” His voice was rough and scratchy. “You drive, and I’ll deal with this… thing.” He drew in a breath, a little shakily, but it was a deep breath that expanded Sam’s whole ribcage. A good sign. “I’m going to go to sleep soon, but I promise that I won’t have this body dying on me. I promise. I don’t break my word, Dean.”

“Don’t. One hour fifty minutes. Not that much longer, Sammy.”

“It’s been a while since anyone called me that…” Sam turned around in his seat and curled up with his head facing the window and resting on a pillow of his two hands. He refused to answer why he’d said what he’d just said, but the deep and easy breathing coming from that seat told Dean his little brother was going to be okay.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam floated back into consciousness lying on a soft cot in silence, with the heat on his skin of another body not that far away. His mind was fuggy and his eyelids were stuck together.

“Another seal was broken today. That makes twelve.” He recognised the voice, but he didn’t remember where from. It was hard to remember anything.

“I know, Gabriel. I saw the sunset through my vessel’s eyes.” That was his own voice. What was… what was going on? Sam moaned softly, and he heard the first, familiar voice chuckle.

“Lucy, your charge is waking up. Are you going to wipe his memory this time?”

“No. He will just think we’re a hallucination.”

“What… Where am I?” Sam forced his sticky eyes to open and found himself in a gloomy, circular room with white wards on the walls. The light level was dim, but the two figures, one on a chair and one on his bed (but not making an impression in the foam) seemed to  _glow_  softly. The Trickster and… himself. “Am I in heaven? Am I dead?” The Trickster laughed again.

“Sambaman, hate to disappoint, but this ain’t Heaven. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“Because you’re dead, right?”

“Ooh, for a half-conscious mortal going through demon blood withdrawal, you sure are on the ball, Sammy.”

“Don’t… call me that.” Sam flopped his head back on the cot. The pillow smelled of lavender. “So I’m in Hell, then. I always kinda knew it would turn out like this.”

“You’re not in Hell either. Not this time.” Other Sam put a hand on Sam’s shoulder; he could tell who it was because he knew his palm like he knew the, well, the back of his hand. “You are currently in a panic room built in the basement of Singer Salvage Yard.”

“Who are you? Are you me? If you’re me, then who am I?” Coherent thought was proving a bit of a problem for Sam at the moment. “My name is Sam, right?”

“Yes. My name, or one of them, is also Sam. You are a part of me, but not all, and I have other names besides what I am to you.”

“I don’t… understand you, other me.”

“That doesn’t matter. For now you should go to sleep, and I will fix what happened. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I should have known that your body would not be equipped to handle so much all at once.”

Sam was about to ask what Other Sam meant, but then the hand on his shoulder trailed up his neck to stroke through his hair and he heard his own voice singing. There were no words, only notes, but they wrapped around his mind like a powerful spell and an _amazing_  tingling feeling washed right through his body as he was lulled off to sleep.

 

  
* * *

When Sam woke up again, he was alone. He figured the strange figures must have been a dream, or a hallucination brought on by the blood.

“Dean? Hey, anyone?” Something was different about him. His voice sounded sharper, and the room didn’t have the right colour scheme. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

Sam got to his feet, thankful that his body seemed to be functioning as normal - better than normal, in fact - and tried the door. It was locked from the outside. He banged on the wall.

“Let me out!” He listened. There were faint footsteps, walking down what he could hear was a set of stairs. His brother’s footsteps, because they had that quick clompiness to them that he’d never be able to quite describe in words. “Dean, that’s you, right?” It occurred to him that he’d never been able to identify someone by their footsteps before.

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m right here. I’m going to unlock the door. Are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine. It’s passed, whatever it was. I feel better than ever.” And he did. There was an awareness about him that Sam couldn’t remember ever having, as if all this time had been spent not fully conscious and he was only now just waking up.

The lock clicked open with a click-clickity-click, like there were multiple locks (and there probably were), and then suddenly Dean was hugging him so tightly it should have been uncomfortable or even painful, but it wasn’t.

“I thought I’d lost you there, Sam. Don’t you  _ever_  do that to me again.”

“Not planning on it. Wasn’t the most peachy experience for me either. Where are we? Is this Bobby’s panic room?” Sam glanced around. Dean drew back in confusion.

“How do you know  _that?_ ”

“I hallucinated it. Did you know that when you’ve ODed on demon blood, hallucinations tend to be real? And accurate. It’s… terrifying. I should be a garbling wreck on the floor right now. I have no idea what cleared it all up. Maybe it self-destructed out of my system.”

“Yeah, we have got to talk about this. Come on, let’s get you up to the lounge and then me and Bobby can go yell at you for nearly dying on us.” Sam nodded and sniffed the air.

“Bobby’s making pancakes? I love pancakes! I want maple syrup on mine.”

Bobby was, indeed, making pancakes, although at that point he was whisking up the batter and had not turned on any kind of heat source, so there wasn’t any way Sam could have known by smell. Dean chose to selectively ignore this fact.

Sam scoffed down his stack like a ravenous wolf, like he hadn’t eaten in days instead of the fifteen or so hours it had been.

“Easy there. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

“Mhm.” Sam swallowed the mouthful and stabbed another with his fork. “I’m starving. I think I’m all better. This stuff tastes too bland though. Pass the syrup.” He shoved the forkful in his mouth.

“Don’t overdo it. It might have multiple stages and I don’t want you hogging the toilet for hours. Bobby, did you look up what demon blood does?”

Bobby pulled out a not-actually-that-dusty old tome from under the table and opened it. The pages naturally fell open at a specific place - huh, that was the one with the exorcism spell on it - and then he flipped about ten pages on.

“Right here. The blood of a demon’s vessel contains fragments of a demon’s shattered soul dissolved in it. When ingested, it provides the drinker with enhanced physical and mental abilities, at the cost of side-effects like nausea, addiction, increased allergic reactions and even death if too much is ingested. It looks like you scraped pretty close there, Sam. Demon blood is used in many spells, particularly those dealing with psychic links between the demon whose blood it is and the caster, or binding spells. It is also consumed by the vessels of high-leveled demons and other supernatural creatures, to strengthen the body and make it last longer. Prolonged ingestion of demon blood makes the drinker appear more demonic in appearance and in attitude, however experiments have shown that it is not possible to turn a human into a demon this way. Their brain gives out after they’ve been at it too long.”

“Ugh, not while I’m eating, Bobby.” Sam set the knife down, two pancakes still to go, and pushed his plate away from him. “Now you’ve ruined my appetite. Can’t we chat about something else for a bit?” Dean folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Look, I swear I will tell you. Just let my food go down, because what I have to say gets a bit gory in the middle. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

“Ya idjit.” Bobby caught Dean’s eye. “How did the X-rays go?”

“X-rays?” Sam was confused. “What do you need X-rays for? Did you break something?”

“No, Bobby sent me off to the hospital last night because I was apparently dragging down the mood with all my fussing over you. I was checking out if what Castiel said was true. If our ribs have stuff written on them. Turns out, hey, they do.” With a flourish Dean pulled out a photograph. “Freaked the hell out of the doctor when he saw it. He must have thought I was into some really kinky shit. Here, take a look. Doesn’t look like any language I’ve ever seen.”

Bobby studied the photograph. Sam strained to get a glimpse. It was all tiny circles and lines, not the latin alphabet, and not any other one he’d recognised either.

“Can you translate this?”

“No go. The only resource I have on Enochian is one dusty old book with a footnote on angel wards. I know because I hunted through for you two yesterday when you called me. It just described how to draw a basic one and how to draw a specific one if you knew the name-glyph of the angel you wanted kept away. Nothing like a dictionary. But I think I know someone who can.”

“Who?”

“Pierre Sudre, the person who wrote that footnote. Great however-many-times grandson of Francois Sudre, a French guy living in the 1800s who claimed he was being visited by angels and started transcribing their language. He practically wrote the book on Enochian. Heck, he literally wrote a book, and everyone thought he was having a psychotic break. He’s been known to the hunting community for the past two hundred years but we dismissed him as a whacko because we didn’t think angels existed. As of yesterday, I’m not so sure.”

“So what, we’re going to France now?” Dean’s voice was without humour. He had dark circles under his eyes.

“The Sudre family were, and still are, scientists - albeit a bit more open-minded than the rest of them. They were involved in the development of compact radios in the run-up to World War II so they packed up and left France when the Nazis got restless. Ended up over our side of the pond, in North Dakota.”

“Convenient. How do you know all of this stuff?”

“Like I said, the Sudres are known to us hunters. They know about the supernatural and they fight it if it steps on their turf, though they don’t go looking for trouble like you two do. We put up with vampires, ghosts and even turfed-out forest spirits as long as they’re helping us and safe. A family that believes an angel gave their granddaddy a mission to spread the language of God is nothing compared to that. We tolerated their crazy; they knew what we thought of them and didn’t mind.”

“So we email this X-ray to Pierre and see what he can do with it?”

“That’s the plan. Once Sam’s better I’ll send you two up to North Dakota to have a chat with him and see if he knows anything else about angels.”

“I told you, I’m better!” Sam huffed and crossed his arms on the table in front of him.

“Well, then tell us about the demon blood. Why didn’t you say anything about this before? We could have helped you before you went loopy!”

“You think I was addicted to it? You think that’s why this went down?”

“Were you?”

“No! Well… yes, but not in the way you were thinking. Technically, my body hadn’t ingested any until yesterday. I did get addicted, but not in this time loop.”

“This is when you were chasing after the Trickster, then.”

“Yeah.” Sam sighed. “Truth is, I did a lot of bad things in that loop, things I’m not proud of, and demon blood wasn’t even the worst of it. Once you were dead, I went to the crossroads but they weren’t making deals, and then afterwards Ruby popped up and told me she could help me hunt down Lilith in revenge. I wasn’t interested, but she joined me on the Trickster hunting instead. She told me her blood would make me stronger, and it did; it even gave me visions of where the Trickster was heading next. It was the best way I had of tracking him down, using my premonitions. By the end of it I was hopelessly addicted and couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried, but then I got zapped back to Wednesday and all trace of it was gone. So I resolved to never let that happen again.”

“But you fell off the wagon. Well, more like swandived off headfirst into a pile of-”

“Dean, there were fifty of them. It was that or die!”

“Alright, calm down you two.” Bobby collected the plates and stood up. “Sam, now I’ve heard your side of the story I’m not blaming you for what you did. I don’t know what happened in that alternate timeline and with what you’re hinting at I’m pretty sure I don’t  _want_ to know. So let’s pretend it never existed. Is there anything else that’s likely to come up we should know about?”

“No. The timeline has diverged, and it’s not following the same route as it did before. Ruby hasn’t showed, and the Trickster’s dead. So I don’t think any of the information I have is relevant anymore.” Sam glared at his brother. “Happy now?”

“Fine. We continue along with plan A. Bobby, here’s the photo.” Dean tossed the X-ray carelessly over the table where it spun out and landed on the floor. “Send it to Sudre and get me the address. We’ll head up there tomorrow, but today we are staying here.”

“Dean, I. Am. Fine. I’m not going to flip out again, I know it. You don’t have to play big brother; I can take care of myself!”

“Oh yeah? Ever considered that I’m doing this for me and not just you? I was up all last night taking care of you and waiting around in the ER with my fake broken rib. I haven’t slept in twenty-five hours. I need a day’s break.” Sam flinched away as if stung, then dropped his eyes to his knees.

“I’m sorry.”

“Well if you want to mean it, next time fucking  _tell_  me when stuff like this comes up. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t do much else that day.

 

  
* * *

The next day Sam woke up early, still feeling like his mind and senses had been given a boost (he knew it had to be lingering effects of the blood, but this had never happened with it before), and was packed before Dean was even out of bed. Granted, ‘packed’ consisted of one small rucksack plus all the hunting supplies that were in the Impala anyway, but he resolved all the same that he wasn’t going to be a burden and make his brother wait for him.

They drove north, and crossed the border into North Dakota in what felt like no time at all. Sudre’s house wasn’t far from there, and they were rolling up the driveway before the clock struck noon. A middle-aged man was there to meet them.

“Hello! You are the two Winchester brothers, yes? We are expecting you. Please come in.” He shook first Dean’s hand, then Sam’s. Sam could pick up the tiniest trace of a french accent in his tone, but it was far to mild to cause them any trouble in understanding his words. “My name is Pierre Sudre.”

“You’re the one Bobby sent the X-ray to. Can you translate it?”

“Yes, and yes. But the pictures shown are not a full copy of the text, and Robert has told me that Sam’s ribs are also marked with symbols? I wish to get a record of all the symbols to be translated so I know what I’m looking at. Sometimes Enochian symbols have meanings that vary with context.”

“Sure, that’s fine with us.” Pierre stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “Do we have to hop off to another hospital?” He shook his head, amused.

“Oh, no, we have a CT scanner in the house.”

Dean shared a look with Sam.

“Uh, if you don’t mind me asking, why-”

“It’s part of my job. I look after people who have suffered prolonged demonic or angelic possession, and help them to recover and lead a normal life. Surely Robert mentioned that?”

“No, he didn’t. Wait, did you say-”

“Angelic possession?” Sam finished. “Angels possess people?”

“They require a vessel to manifest on the mortal plane.”

“So, wait, when Castiel ambushed us, he was-” Dean gagged. “I didn’t even know. The poor guy.”

“If it puts your mind at rest, angels require consent to use their vessels, since angelic possession requires a soul bond of sorts that allows the angel to tap into the energy stores present in a vessel’s soul. Likely, the vessel of Castiel was a devout man who prayed for this his whole life, though he would be unaware of the suffering vesseldom would put him through. I have seen many similar cases. Important and powerful bloodlines are manipulated very carefully to ensure they have the best chance of cooperating with the angels they pair with.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably and gave Dean a slightly alarmed look.

“But be that as it may, why don’t you two come inside? I have coffee if you would like some.”

They followed Pierre into the living room, where sure enough there was a large white piece of medical equipment - a table with a ring enclosing it, like an MRI, that was humming gently with a computer next to it. Neither Dean nor Sam really knew what a CT scanner looked like, but it could easily be this. They sat on the sofa while Sudre called up to someone else.

“Marie! Could you make coffee for three please, we have guests!” There was a muffled yell of acknowledgement from somewhere else in the house. “Well, I guess there is no sense in waiting to start. It will take a while for me to interpret and translate the images. Which of you wants to go first?” Sam shrugged.

“I guess me, since Dean already has that X-ray.”

“Very well. I need you to lie down on the table. This isn’t an MRI so it’s a ring rather than a tunnel. You won’t get claustrophobic.” Sam did as instructed and watched in slight trepidation as Sudre pulled the ring across so it was approximately over his ribs. A red laser X flashed up on his shirt. “Don’t worry, the procedure is noninvasive. But I need to to move your ribs as little as possible in the next ten minutes. Try to breathe using your diaphragm.” He pressed a button and there was a beep from the machine. The ring began to slowly rotate with a whirring sound, and the X crawled across Sam’s clothes. He tried to keep as still as he could.

Dean stared at the computer monitor, attempting to work out what the image on it was showing. All he could see were black and white splodges on a grey background.

“So why do you need a CT scanner, anyway?”

“Angels and demons often mark their vessel’s bones with symbols and sigils. Sometimes they are useful spells, sometimes they are just ownership marks but it is often the case, especially with demons, that they are designed to harm or mentally repress the host in order to prevent it fighting. It’s nearly impossible to remove the marks but if I know what they are I can devise an appropriate counterspell tattoo to negate the effects. Ah, thank you Marie.” A young girl with auburn hair entered the room holding a tray with three mugs of coffee balanced on it. She set them down carefully on the little table and looked around at Dean.

“Who are our guests, Papa?” Her accent was far more obviously French.

“This is Sam and Dean Winchester.”

“I’m Dean. Nice to meet you, Marie. Sam’s in the scanner, so he can’t say hello, but I’m sure he would if he could.” Marie was wide-eyed.

“Sam and Dean… Winchester? Papa, these men, they are…”

“I know, Cherie. You have told me before.” Dean perked up.

“We’re what? You know about us?”

“You have many stories about you.” These people were part of the hunting community, Dean remembered, and he’d already known he and his brother were somewhat infamous in these circles. “They say that you keep us all safe.”

“Aww, it’s nothing for a beautiful girl like you.” From the scanner came a snort of air as Sam desperately tried not to start laughing. Seriously, Dean had about a two track mind - either hunting things, or picking up girls. Marie looked flustered and brought her hand up to her mouth in shock.

“O-oh! Um, I’m sorry, but I think you’re a bit too young for me…” She was blushing and quickly left the room.

“Great job, Dean, hitting on a girl with her Dad present,” Sam whispered quietly from the scanner. Dean rolled his eyes and turned to Pierre.

“Was that your daughter? Is her English okay? I’ve had people rejecting me because I’m too old, but dude, never because I’m too _young._ ”

“That was… not my daughter, though she calls me Papa and she is the light of my life. Marie Sutre is my many times great-aunt, the younger sister of Francois.” At Dean’s gaping mouth and forming questions Pierre continued. “She was taken as a vessel by the angel Anael, who was the one that dictated the Enochian language to us. Marie is nearly two-hundred years old.”

“Wait, we have an angel in the house?” Dean jumped off the sofa. “Why didn’t you warn me on that!”

“No. Marie is not Anael, and though we have searched Anael is nowhere to be found. She was her true vessel, you understand, and Anael loved Marie with a love that cannot be found among mortals. The love an angel has for the missing piece of their identity. She was taken when she was only sixteen, and spent many decades in service of Heaven. An angel’s true vessel does not age or wither away. But twenty-three years ago she appeared on my doorstep and told me Anael had left her in order to fall, for she disagreed with Heaven’s commands. I took her in as first a big brother, then a father when I grew too old. Only recently has the Grace inside of her faded enough for the body to age as normal.”

“So… an ex-angel? That’s what you do then; you run a rehab-house for poor, neglected vessels?”

“Yes. Though as I say Marie was not neglected, but she grew up in a much simpler time and did not know how the world works now. Others who come here are far worse off. Their brains are damaged and their bodies have injuries no medic can heal. Many of them are so traumatised by what the being within them did that they beg me to let them die.”

The scanner beeped and stopped moving. Sam lay there, not moving just in case.

“I can get up now?” he breathed. Pierre gave him a nod and he rolled off the bed, scratching an itch on his face furiously. “Gah, they always pop up when you have to keep still! Hey, can I see the picture?”

“Of course, though you will not be able to tell much from it at this stage. I must transcribe and then translate the glyphs before I know what is on there for sure.” Pierre clicked on a few links and the monitor’s screen flashed up with what looked like an X-ray of a full rib cage, marked with symbols and swirling lines around the bones. “Wait, sorry, I don’t think this is your one. I will find… No?” He narrowed his eyes in frustration and reclicked the same link. The same image came up. “But this is the most recent scan. That is not possible. Not unless… Oh.” He looked at Sam with actual honest-to-god pity in his eyes.

“What? Did you find a cancer or something?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Pierre turned to Dean. “I’m very sorry, but I must talk to your brother about a very personal and private matter. It would be best if you left for a minute or two so he can hear it alone.”

“Pierre, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of Dean. He’s my brother and I’m not keeping secrets from him, so I’ll just tell him when he comes back in anyway. What’s the point?” Dean grinned at Sam and Sam gave him a thumbs up. “Now hit me. What’s so bad about the scan?”

“These ridges, here, along the collarbone.” Pierre traced his hand over the picture on the monitor, shaking his head. “They are grooves and raised areas that form a spiral around the bone, heading outwards from the middle. They have not made it very far, so it has not been for long, but…” He took a deep breath. “They are the hallmarks of possession. Sam, you have been a vessel.”

“That’s it?” Sam gave a relieved laugh. “I already knew that. God, you had me worried there. Don’t worry, I know I was a meatsuit. It’s why I went and got my anti-possession tattoo.”

“Anti-possession? No, I don’t mean a demon’s vessel, Sam; demon possession does not cause those marks. You have been a vessel for an angel.” Sam drew back in shock. “I take it you didn’t know? That’s odd, because angels require consent.”

“I… what? There’s an angel in me right now?” He poked his ribcage experimentally.

“There is no trace of electrical interference on the scan, so I do not think so. If the angel is still within you, he is hiding every trace of his presence to a degree that I would think impossible. No, the angel has probably left your body.”

Dean looked from Sam’s startled face to Pierre’s grim one. “Are you sure he was actually possessed?”

“Fairly. It could be an unexpected side-effect of the other glyphs but I saw no trace of this on the photo of  _you_  that Robert sent to me. Sam, this is very important: have you ever woken up, having lost time, and strange events had occurred while you were supposedly unconscious?”

“Absolutely.” He’d been searching for the answer to that for weeks, and he thought he’d had it with the Trickster, but this ticked all the boxes. Angel possession. “I must have made a deal. Consent to being a vessel in exchange for… well.” Dean got the unspoken words. They didn’t want to mention Hell - no use alarming anyone. “And that explains the mark too!”

“The mark?”

“Yeah, the mark. Dean, show him the handprint on your arm.” Dean shrugged the left sleeve of his jacket off and tugged up his t-shirt, exposing the burn. It hadn’t scabbed over like burns usually did - the red had faded but it was as raised and calloused as ever. “Could an angel have caused this?”

“That is a scar from holy fire. I can’t see how it would  _not_  have been an angel.”

“That settles it, then. Look.” Sam placed his palm over the handprint, fingers splayed out. “Perfect fit. Whoever that angel was, he was wearing me at the time.”

“Ezekiel.” Dean stared at Sam’s hand with downcast eyes. “That’s his name. Castiel told me while we were talking. An angel named Ezekiel busted Heaven’s grand old plan by breaking me out, and now they’re tracking him down to find out where he went and why he did it.”

“I know. I heard.”

“You were listening? You were pretty out of it back then.”

“I can close my eyes but ears don’t work like that. I could hear everything in a five mile radius courtesy of hyperdrive mode.” Sam removed his hand and inspected the palm of it. “There’s no burn on mine, though. I guess Ezekiel healed it as a parting gift, at about the same time as he carved in the sigils.”

“No, holy fire doesn’t work like that,” Pierre said, “At least, not with an angel. Holy fire is the burning of an angel’s Grace, their equivalent of a soul. They can’t heal scars from it, and they can’t even touch it without setting their own Grace on fire and burning up completely.”

“Hey, if it helps I did wake up with a rather nasty sunburn, but I’m pretty sure that’s because Ezekiel dumped me at the gravesite and left. Now, if you’ll ‘scuse me,” Sam walked over to the door, “I need to talk to Marie.”

“Why?”

“Because she was a vessel too, Dean. And I want some questions answered. You go get your scan done.” He left the room.

 

  
* * *

“Alright, sheesh. No need to get huffy with me!” Dean gave the scanner a once-over. “So I have to sit in there, same as him, until it goes beep? That’s it?”

“Yes.” Dean hopped onto the table and shunted along it until he was in the right position, the X resting over just to the right of his heart. “It should only take five minutes.” Pierre pressed the button and the machine began to whir and turn.

They stood and lay in silence for a while, and Dean could definitely see what Sam had been talking about - now that he wasn’t allowed to move, every single inch of his skin had decided it wanted scratching.

“Hey, is it okay to move my arms?” He gave up and whispered, due to a persistent itch on his face just under his right eye.

“If you must, but don’t move them over your ribs. You can talk too, as long as you keep it at that volume and do  _not_ start laughing.”

“Alright.” He rubbed his face, then his hair, then his knee. Stupid tingly itches popping up everywhere. “Can I ask you something about Sam? Is he going to be okay?”

“I’m not sure. You want to know the prognosis for victims of angelic possession? It isn’t good. Though Sam seems not to remember either consenting or the time itself, so that puts his chances up considerably.”

“What should I expect, then? Actually, give me the entire whammy, because he got possessed by a demon too way back when and you seem like an expert.”

“Very well.” Pierre took a deep breath as it steadying himself. When he spoke again it sounded rehearsed, like he’d said this a thousand times before. “Possession victims, of any type, usually have either conscious or repressed memories of what they did while possessed. These can cause psychological trauma and an inability to lead a normal life. There can also be physical injuries or disabilities present, and these can amplify the mental damage with a constant reminder. Sam’s ribs seem to be the only example of this, but he may be unconsciously aware of what happened during the possession. There may be flashbacks or hallucinations. You will need to help him through them.”

The machine beeped to say it was done, and Dean wriggled out to sit back on the much more comfy sofa. He gulped down his coffee.

“Anything else I should watch out for?”

“Self-harm. Suicide attempts. Sam is a lot better than some of the cases I have seen. Then there’s the Stockholm Syndrome effect where the vessel forms a bond with the creature possessing it, and working through the loneliness caused when the angel or demon leaves the body is perhaps the hardest task of anything. It’s been twenty-three years and Marie still wakes up from nightmares crying for Anael. Oh, and since it was an angelic possession, you should know: consent isn’t retractable.”

“What?”

“Angels fall if they disobey orders. One of those orders is effective all the time: that they must not interfere with free will and so they have to gain consent from a would-be vessel. But the bar is set pretty low; consent does not have to be informed consent, and it can be coerced. Once it is obtained for a specific angel and vessel, if does not need to be reobtained. You can choose to let an angel in, but you must forever live with the consequences of your choice.”

“So Ezekiel, wherever the heck he is, could just wander in and nick Sam’s body right out from under my nose?”

“If he is still alive, yes.”

“Dammit!” Dean got up. “Alright, then I’m not letting him outta my sight. Where did he go?”

“Marie spends a lot of time in our garden. He may be there. But you should give them some time, alone, without interruptions. There are some things about being an angel’s vessel that Sam would not want you to hear. At least, not before he has some time to process them.”

“Like what?”

“I… do not know. Marie has never told me, though she talks with every victim that I see come through my doors. Demon and angel alike. Whatever she says, it seems to help them recover, but not a single one of them has told me what it was.”

“Oh, great.” He flopped back onto the sofa. “I hate making small talk while waiting. Makes me feel awkward. So, is it just you two here, running this place? Like, a halfway house between vesseldom and life.”

“Yes. Just us. Many of the demon vessels that visit us swear revenge on the creatures that used them, and promise to become a hunter. Most of them quit the life once they realise how lonely it is, and some of them slip up on their first hunt and get themselves killed. I don’t track what happens to the rest of them after that, but there have been at least five or six people who are now quite prominent hunters.”

“Demon vessels?” Dean didn’t miss the clarification. “So what happens to the angel vessels?”

“Their aftermath in many cases is far worse. You’d think it would be the other way around, wouldn’t you? It’s not.” Pierre shrugged. “From birth they are manipulated by virtue of their bloodline, and molded into the perfect little angel meatsuit. From before birth, even - the Cupids influence who falls in love with whom, to keep the blood pure, and they make sure that exactly the right conception occurs. These people grow up surrounded and indoctrinated by religion, believing that God and His followers, the angels, are righteous and holy and are to be worshipped. Then when the time comes, the angel appears to them in a dream and tells them they are chosen. Without exception, they consent. It’s what they’ve been trained their whole life to do, how angels get around the free will barrier.”

“Isn’t that kind of cheating?”

“Coerced consent still counts, I’m afraid. And once they’ve given it, they’re nothing but a body to most angels, locked in the back of their mind and given no thought while images of what the angel is using them for leak through. And as I’m sure you’re aware, angels aren’t sunshine and rainbows. They have no ethics or compassion. They are warriors and weapons, cruel and heartless in their missions, willing to do anything to complete the task directed to them. That includes sustaining injuries, torturing others, or even sexual contact. Angels are genderless and non-sexual beings, but they have no pride - it’s a sin - and if pretending to be human and sleeping with someone will get them what they want, they don’t think twice about doing it. But consensual sex with an angel is still rape of the vessel, even if they are trapped within a box in the angel’s mind and cannot vocalise their distress.”

“…Fuck. No wonder they end up so screwed up afterwards.”

“It’s worse. These people have been raised to believe angels cannot possibly be anything but good. So instead of blaming what’s possessing them, which is what demon vessels always do, they blame themselves. For not being strong enough to deal with it. For inconveniencing the being inside them with their screams and cries for help. Eventually it gets to the point where they can’t fight anymore, and give up on being anything more than a body for hire, rationalising that this has to be the purpose they were born for. And it is, technically, it’s just a terrible purpose to have. Once they’re out, it can take months or even years to make them snap out of that state. It depends how long they’ve been under.”

“What I don’t get,” Dean said thoughtfully, “Is how that can happen. Them getting out. Is there some way to exorcise an angel from its vessel, and if so where do I learn it?”

“There are banishing sigils and wards, but they don’t remove the angel from the body unless painted on the body itself, which an angel would never stay still long enough for you to do. There are also angelic weapons that can kill the angel, but the vessel almost without exception dies in the resulting explosion.”

“What kinds of weapons?” Now this he could deal with.

“Blades, mostly, those carried by the angels themselves. There are legends of a gun that was made from the same metal, firing special bullets that can kill angels and anything else in Creation. I’m sorry, but I don’t know how you could obtain a weapon like this without asking an angel themselves, and they would never hand it over to you.”

“Alright, fine.” The Colt could kill angels. Things were looking up. “So do the angels normally just leave voluntarily?”

“Angels require a vessel when stationed on Earth, in order to effect changes here. When they are restationed to a post in Heaven or elsewhere in Creation, the vessel is no longer needed. It’s akin to carrying a rucksack on your back full of camping supplies, I’ve had it said to me. Useful when out in the wilderness but a burden once you’re back in civilisation, so you take it off and dump it somewhere. Or if it starts to wear out and get old you go find a new one.”

“I thought you said vessels don’t age?”

“Only true vessels, those that have a special connection to the angel they pair with. Angels don’t voluntarily leave their true vessel, because once they have it they’re set for all eternity. Marie is the only true vessel I know of that is back with us now, and that is only because Anael chose to fall. The rest of them, well…” He trailed off.

“Just second best. Chucked away once they’re not of use.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Angels are douchebags. Guess I should have seen that coming from what’s in the Bible.”

“Yes. The worst thing is that for most ex-vessels, the angel doesn’t give a goodbye. So they spend their whole life waiting for them to possibly show up again and the whole rollercoaster ride to start anew, and they can’t stop it because consent isn’t retractable. Most of them dread it, but after years of no contact some of them actually start praying for it, to go back to that time when they were special, when enough time has passed for them to forget some of the torture they were put through. It never happens. Well, I lie, because it once did, but not often. Time in Heaven moves differently to time here. A month there is ten years here, so our lifetimes aren’t much to them.”

“How many angels are we talking about here? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? How often do you get these patients, anyways?

“Angel vessels about once a year. From what I can tell there are more than ten thousand angels, but only a tiny fraction of those are ever stationed on Earth. Demon possession is far, far more common than angel possession. Normally for them, we have at least two patients at any one time, but… In the past few weeks demon activity around the country has all but disappeared, and nobody knows why. All except for one area in-”

“Southern Wyoming, yeah. We know, we went there. Trust me, you do _not_ want to know what is going down. We told Bobby, we’ll tell you now - stay the fuck away from that place.”

“Duly noted.” Pierre brought up Dean’s ribs on the computer and gave them a quick glance-over. “You’ll be glad to know that there are no marks indicating that you have been used as a vessel, from what I can see.”

“Awesome. I’ll go tell Sam the good news.”

 

  
* * *

“Marie? Marie, wait up!” Sam spotted her leaning on the sill, gazing out the kitchen window, and stopped in the doorway. “I, uh… can we talk?”

“Of course.” Without turning around, she reached across and turned the handle of the door leading out to the patio. “I am sure that you have many questions for me. I know you were an angel’s vessel, Sam. I can tell these things.”

The two of them stepped outside one after the other, Marie shielding her eyes from the sudden rush of sunlight, Sam just blinking twice before he was adjusted.

“What was it like?” Sam blurted out. “Being a vessel? I don’t remember, and I can’t really…”

“It is like nothing else on this Earth. It is lifting and light and melody, but it is terrifying and awful in the most literal sense of the word. They say that an angel’s true form is so bright, after beholding it everything else is in shadow. That is what it was to me, and Anael protected me all he could.”

“Anael is… a he?”

“Angels do not have genders, Sam. But I am very sorry; I thought that ‘he’ was the general word to use. It should be ‘they’, should it not? I apologise, as my English is sometimes lacking.”

“You grew up in France, didn’t you? French is your native language.” Marie reached down to the grass to inspect a flower, an orchid by the look of it, though Sam wasn’t an expert in this.

“French is my first language, yes. But the language of my dreams and thoughts is neither. My native language is Enochian, the language of song. It was all I spoke for a century and more.” She rose back to her feet. “Walk with me. There is a bench at the bottom of the garden where we may sit and talk in peace.”

The bench was one of those with a plaque on it dedicating it to someone in memoriam. The metal was tarnished but Sam could see the name: Mary Sudre.

“Is that you?”

“No, that is not me. Pierre had a daughter many, many years ago. She died when she was young; a road traffic accident. He prayed for her soul that night, the first night he had ever prayed. It was the first night I heard his voice through Anael, calling what I thought was my name. Without that prayer I would have been lost, without anywhere to go or anyone to take me in two years later when Anael fell.” She stroked the plaque tenderly. “It is because of her that he took me in, I think. I am the daughter he was never able to watch grow up.”

A little bird hopped onto the branch nearest to them, watching the two of them with inquisitive eyes. Marie whistled to it and it tilted its head towards her before gliding down to perch on her index finger and cheeping its song back. Marie smiled.

“You can talk to animals?” The noise startled the bird which flew off, and Marie lowered her hand as she nodded.

“Not talk as humans know talking to be, but they can understand me. Enochian is a language of pure meaning, created an eternity ago when God decided that he needed a way for his creations to communicate. It is the oldest and simplest language ever used, and any of his creations can understand it. Even you, Sam.”

“I can’t. It’s just whistling to me.”

“Though certain tunes stir feelings inside of you. Anger or sorrow or happiness. You unconsciously know the meaning even if you are not aware of the exact translation. The bird knew I whistled safety, and trusted me. Birds cannot conceive of a being able to lie. It is the same with very young children, so lullabies comfort them.”

“That’s… that’s amazing. Enochian is  _literally_  musical notes. So the angelic chorus… is a literal chorus?”

“Yes. And the reason humanity finds meaning in music is because they see glimpses of Enochian within the songs and pieces they play, even if they are not aware what causes them these feelings. Much of humanity’s musical taste is built around the specific chord patterns that command the listener to amplify and multiply the sound. It is why most pop music is so catchy.”

“Can you teach me? I want to learn.” To be able to sing rather than speak sounded like the coolest thing in the world, not to mention the bonuses knowing angel language would undoubtedly give them.

“I… I am very sorry. But you are a hunter, and it would take you a year or more of study before you would be fluent. You cannot spare the time from your mission to save others.”

“Yeah, I know. Guess I’ll have to make do. But could you teach me the basics?” Marie smiled.

“If you wish it. Enochian has seven… letters, if you will, though syllables is a better name for what they are. Words are constructed from up to five syllables, meaning there are nearly twenty thousand words in the language, each with an assigned meaning. Grammar is not important, because this language was constructed before words formed, and we had no concept of noun or verb back then. Each letter corresponds, as you would hear it, to a note of your musical scale.”

“Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, right? I’ve done music classes.” Something about this conversation was pinging deja vu in Sam’s brain.

“Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, back when I lived, but the more modern form is acceptable too. Musical scale notes, though Enochian is more than just music. It can be shown in the seven colours of the rainbow, or the seven days of the week, or in the circles and lines that form the basis for its written glyphs, or in binary, or any medium that can represent seven different syllables and a zeroth one, silence, that serves as a dividing marker between one word and the next. It is why seven is a lucky number for so many people.”

“…Seven’s my lucky number.”

“Mine as well.” There was a rustle in the bushes behind them, and Marie whipped her head around to stare with wide eyes at… “Oh. Just a rabbit.” It twitched its nose at them, then hopped off into the greenery where it couldn’t be seen. “There are lots of burrows around here; we get many of them each spring.”

“Definitely not anything supernatural? It was spying on us.”

“Oh, no, not at all! It just wanted to see what the commotion was here. Rabbits are very curious animals.” She narrowed her eyes and looked around, though, checking to see if anything else was there before turning back to Sam with a little frown on her face. “Can you promise that you will not tell anyone else what I am about to say to you?”

“…Yes.”

Marie brushed a strand of hair out from where it had fallen across her eyes. Her expression had fallen from cheeriness to sad.

“An angel needs a vessel because its true form cannot be comprehended here. But when God created the angels he could have given them their own bodies, not having them take ours. He made it this way for a purpose, Sam. We do have a purpose. I know what it is.” She glanced around again, then up at the sky for good measure. “The highest angels, the archangels, they don’t want anyone to figure it out. Don’t want anyone to stop and think. They’ll kill you if they believe you know it. That’s why Anael fell, because he couldn’t rejoin the Host’s song knowing what he knew, and they were calling him back from his post. They would have seen he was hiding something from them in his mind and dragged him off to torture it out of him. And once they knew he knew, he would be a goner.”

“What? What is it?”

“Do you know where souls come from?”

The question was so jarringly out of place that for a moment Sam just sat there, dumbly wondering if he’d heard it right. Then he shook his head.

“No. No idea. Is it from the angels?”

“No, and that’s the point. Nobody knows where souls come from. Not even the archangels, not even the reapers. Nobody makes them. They just appear from nowhere. Souls are sentience. They’re disobeyal of what you were designed to do in favour of what you want to do or what you think is right. People say life begins at conception? They’re wrong. Not even at birth. Back then we’re just wriggling animals, nothing special at all. It’s when we start thinking for ourselves that our soul flickers in and we start living. Three years old, or four. Do you remember a time when you were very young, and you looked around and realised you were you?”

“I…” The memory flashed through his mind, clear as a crystal bell. Four and a half, Dean at school, him sitting on the floor playing with a box of lego bricks. Building a multicoloured person. Calling it ‘Sam the most bestest grown-up ever’. Then thinking that it didn’t have to be the lego that was the bestest grown-up ever. He could be, if he wanted to. He was Sam, and the whole world was open to him. “I do. Remember.” The arguments, the rebellion, the hurtful feelings towards Dad, they had all started just after that day.

“Nearly everyone I’ve talked to remembers. For some people it’s their earliest memory. For others it comes later, when they are a teenager, and the day after they look back on their life and think they must have been in a haze. Some people never find their soul and die as mere animals. But when God made our kind, he optimised everything so we stood the best chance of it happening. Why are we selfish? So we stand a better chance of developing a soul. Why is there suffering in the world? Same reason; it is all part of God’s plan. We are his greatest work. In Eden he made us, and in Eden he kept us and changed every part of us until eventually we disobeyed his orders and were ready to face this world.”

“Anael sure did his research.”

“But it’s more than that, Sam. Angels, you see, were made to be perfect. They have none of the laziness or rage or superstition we do. They are perfect beings living in a perfect world, and they have no soul. They don’t develop one, because they have no chance to. They follow God’s word to its every letter and show no disobeyal, or they will be cast out to join the filthy humans in their muck who also disobeyed.”

“So then, that raises a big sticky question: why make them use humans as vessels?”

“Exactly!” Marie nodded enthusiastically. “More than that: they have to join with a human’s soul. An angel can heal a corpse or fashion their own body just fine, and it makes no sense that the sight of them still burns out our eyes if they do so. But if they bond with a soul, then suddenly everything clicks and they can control the body the soul controls. God made it like that, so they had to do this, so there was no other way. If they could, the angels would stay as far away from us as possible. They don’t want to be contaminated by contact with us.”

“But they have to. They have to expose themselves to… this.” Sam made a general gesture at the two of them. “To pesky human emotions.”

“More than that, to their vessel. They have to know their vessel’s name, to talk with them, to obtain consent. And then they have to listen while their vessel is screaming in the back of their head, and not acknowledge them in any way. Because those are their orders, that a vessel should be nothing more than a tool, just like they themselves are. Do you know how hard it is to ignore the pleas for help of someone you are soul-bonded to? Humans can’t manage it. Angels can, but sometimes it comes close. Sometimes, for certain angels, they stop ignoring and start paying attention.”

“And disobey.”

“They’re caught in a conflict - do they blindly obey their orders, or do they follow those feelings though to the end and reach the logical conclusion that their orders are unjust? Anael chose the second option, ten years after he took me, and we both felt the moment when his soul came into being. That’s our purpose, as vessels. God created us to show his perfect creations how to think for themselves. To help the angels fall.”

Sam felt something in the pit of his stomach. It was heavy, like the weight of stress, as something within him realised that what Marie said made perfect sense.

“I… I know what you mean. I see. Their purpose is to disobey. Like mine.” He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore - the words were spilling out of his mouth like someone else was speaking them. “And they fall because nobody can tell them that, because otherwise they’d disobey thinking they were following God’s plan, when God’s plan itself is to have them disobey without knowing that’s what they’re meant to do. It’s a test, just like in Eden.”

“Yes. But the other angels, the ones higher up - they can’t have rebellion in the ranks. Only God can fashion an angel and he hasn’t been seen on two thousand years. So they target defectors to keep their society safe. Are you… are you alright?” Marie blinked at Sam. “Sorry, I thought… your eyes, you…”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, zoned out a bit there.” Sam turned his head to scan the shrubbery behind him. “Dean should be along in about half a minute, and I bet your dad will have those glyphs translated in no time at all. So, I guess I’ll see you around sometime?”

Marie smiled a soft smile.

“That would be nice.”

There was a crash and a bit of a thump, and ten seconds later Dean emerged with dirt on his trousers like he’d just fallen over.

“Dean, did you trample one of the flowerbeds? Pierre’s not gonna be thrilled with you.”

“They’re just plants. They’ll grow back. Now come on, I need to go talk to him about some kind of angelic hex bag or anti-possession tattoo. Zeke as it stands could just waltz over and nick your body back, and I’m not having that.”

“Zeke? Seriously, a nickname? You never even met the guy. Or maybe you did and just forgot it.” Nevertheless Sam got up and followed his brother back through the garden, leaving Marie behind on the bench. “And I’m not sure angels do the whole anti-possession thing.”

“I talked to him. He says there’s a sigil that if you paint it on your body can cast an angel out, and that means the same sigil will prevent an angel from getting back in. What did she talk to you about, anyway?”

“She was teaching me Enochian. Did you know it’s a musical language? You can whistle an exorcism, I bet. One of those would be super useful to learn.”

“Nope. Quite frankly, I don’t care how they speak as long as I can stab them with something. Where is Ruby’s knife, by the way? The Colt only has eighteen bullets and I don’t want to waste them.”

“Lost it. Somewhere. Still can’t remember where, and our mysterious C friend didn’t return it.” Sam thought for a moment. “Wait, was that Castiel? You should ask him next time you meet.”

“Ask him yourself.”

“He’s not exactly enamoured to me, if you didn’t notice. He tried to kill me.”

“I stopped him.”

“You asked him to in the first place.”

“Bitch.” Sam grinned.

“Jerk.”

 

  
* * *

Pierre Sudre was waiting for them back in the lounge, his cup of coffee lukewarm and untouched beside him, adding the final touches to an A4 sheet of symbols with what looked like their English translations written under them.

“It’s as I thought. Dean, your symbols are the same as those on Sam, but he has more than you.” He tapped one of the glyph lines. “All the ones that you share are sigils that cloak you from sight. It’s really very elegantly done, the writing is palindromic with one wing on each rib, doubling its power. I might keep a copy of these, because Ezekiel must have been a master of the language with a lot of time on his hands to create something this poetic.”

“Yeah, well, what else has Sam got?”

“The spirals, of course, and a few extra durability wards designed to strengthen the vessel. I don’t think there should be side effects now since they require Grace to function, but even if they’re still working they should only speed up healing from injuries, it’s not a negative thing. There’s also this sentence stretching across his collarbone: roughly translated, it means ‘I am unhidden in the sight of daybreak’. It’s some kind of ward or selective negation, but I can’t interpret what it means.”

“Anything else?”

“One little thing, over his heart. The glyphset isn’t any form of Enochian I can recognize, so I can’t translate its meaning, but it’s not long enough to have much effect. But the handwriting doesn’t look the same, so Sam may already have had it before the other markings. Do you recognise this?” Sam looked at the drawing sketched on the paper.

“No. Sorry.”

“Ah well then. Like I said, the glyph isn’t long enough to mean much. It may just be a name-symbol of the angel that possessed you, Ezekiel.”

“Great.” Dean checked his watch. “Well, it was nice meeting you, but my brother and I have things to do. People to save, monsters to hunt. You know the score.”

“Of course. I will send copies of my translations through to Robert by email, if you would appreciate that? Oh, and one more thing.” Pierre took half of a stack of little cards off the desk by the computer and held them out. “Take these, if you would.”

“Business cards?”

“With my contact details, and instructions on how to find me. If you ever save a vessel, give them one of these so I can help them out with dealing with what happened to them. I give some to all the hunters that pass through here.”

“Sure, will do.” Dean took the cards and pocketed them. “Sam, you have anything more to do here or should we hit the road?”

“Shotgun not driving.”

“Your loss. Pierre? It was nice to meet you.” They shook hands firmly, Dean putting on the confident and serious smile he usually reserved for pretending to be FBI. “If we exorcise any demons, we’ll send the people your way. And you tell Marie that if we come across Anael, we’ll give him hell for dumping her.”

“Get in line.” They reached the front door, and Sam had already started down the driveway to the Impala, no longer paying them much attention. “…Watch over him. I don’t know much, but I know enough to realise that the angels have plans for you two. Important plans. And if there is one thing I know for certain about angels, it’s that the humans they have plans for don’t turn out that well.”

“Turns out they’re just another type of monster.”

“Oy, Dean!” Sam yelled from the car. “What’s taking so long?”

“Nothing!”

“Good luck.” Pierre closed the door and Dean got in the driver’s seat. The engine revved with a familiar, comforting hum.

“Where are we going next, Dean?” Sam asked as they pulled onto the road.

“No clue, but it’s sure as anything not going to be demons or angels. I have had enough of those for a lifetime. Call Bobby, see if he can’t rustle us up a good old-fashioned monster hunt. At the moment there is nothing I want more than a salt-and-burn where we can actually kill the thing.”

“Roger.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Dean, it’s right here on the left. See the sign?”

Evergreen House. An old red-brick building in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. Moss was growing on the roof and the paint on the door was shabby and peeling. It looked abandoned.

“Who lives here, again?” The Impala made a crunching noise as it pulled up on the gravel drive.

“Family of three. Well, two now. Apparently, four year old Rachel Tallis hasn’t been seen in a week. It’s why Bobby sent us here. That, and I think he wants us doing hunts close by in case the fighting in Wyoming starts getting worse.”

“And we’re sure it’s supernatural?”

“Nope, not at all. But seriously, nobody else lives around here, so it won’t be an abduction. The emergency services have searched the woods around this place, and they haven’t seen hide nor hair of a lost kid or a body. There are apparently cold spots inside the house, so her ghost might be manifesting. Plus, we’re apparently helping out a family friend. Susan Tallis, that’s Rachel’s mother? Her dad knew our dad.”

“He was a hunter?”

“Looks like it. Either a damn good hunter or a really damn shitty one. He lived long enough to die of natural causes. Anyway, looks like he left a diary with Bobby’s number in the back and instructions to call if Susan needed help and she didn’t trust the authorities. She had no clue about the supernatural until three days ago, apparently. Bobby had to give her the ‘truth’s-out-there’ speech over the phone. Not sure if she believed it, but she’s letting us have a poke around anyway.”

“So that’s two people. Who’s number three? Rachel’s dad?”

“Jeremy Cartwright. Married to Susan, but she hasn’t changed her name, and Rachel’s not a Cartwright either. She didn’t say why, but I’ll bet you he’s not the father.” They parked the car and walked up to the front door of the house. “Probably best if we don’t pretend to be FBI. The people round this way aren’t too trustful of cops.”

Dean knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times, four. Then they waited.

 

 

  
* * *

The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man in shabby clothes with stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes. He gave them a once-over and frowned.

“What do you want?” Dean took the initiative and stepped across the threshold.

“Jeremy Cartwright, I presume? Your wife contacted us about a certain matter, and we would like to speak to her.”

“Oh. …Oh.” His face fell noticeably and he took three steps back. “Well, then, I realise I probably should not be here for this talk. I’ll take a trip to the shops or something. Just… could you tell her that I really do love her? Susan may not be my first wife, but I thought we’d found happiness together. Please, ask her how I can change to fix this.”

“What do you think we are, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Divorce lawyers? No?” They shook their heads. “Well then, what are you?”

“We’re here about the disappearance of your daughter, Rachel.”

“Jerry?” A voice came from inside the house. “Who’s at the door?” Jeremy looked them up and down, obviously not liking what he saw. He gave a little sniff.

“So you’re cops? Suzie! Why are there cops at the door?” A woman - Susan Tallis, most likely - appeared behind Jeremy and peered out at them. Realisation dawned over her face.

“Did Robert send you?”

“Yeah, that’s us. I’m Dean Winchester, and this is my little brother, Sam. Susan Tallis, are we correct?”

“Yes. Please come in. I… uh…” Susan looked at Jeremy nervously. “Could you bring these two a glass of water each? I’m sure they’ve been driving a very long way. I’ll talk to them in the living room.”

She led them through into an airy, spacious room with light yellow walls, several windows overlooking the front and back gardens, and a fireplace with two armchairs either side of it. The coal in the fireplace was probably fake, because there were no soot marks around the mantelpiece. There was also an L-shaped sofa in one corner of the room, and a little table near it with a hastily put-down newspaper on top. Sam and Dean sat down on the sofa, while Susan took an armchair.

“He doesn’t know. About the - the things. The ghosts. To be honest, I’m not so sure I believe it myself, but my father was a good man and I trust him. Robert said on the phone that you were the best of the best. If there’s anything, anything, I can do that will help you find Rachel then please, please tell me.”

Jeremy entered the room with two glasses of water and set them down warily on the table, removing the newspaper to make room. He gave the two brothers a once-over and quite obviously didn’t like what he saw.

“So what are you? Local cops? Feds? We already told the police everything we knew, so if you’re some would-be hotshot scraping around for extra leads, well, you’re not going to-”

“We’re from the Environmental Standards Agency, Mr. Cartwright.” Sam cut him off. “We are investigating a possible airborne chemical release from a plant just west of here. This chemical is known to have detrimental properties when inhaled, some of them hallucinogenic, and can be especially damaging to the mind of a young child. From what Mrs. Tallis described to us, we have reason to believe Rachel may have been under its effects when she disappeared, so we will be sweeping this house to find out whether or not that was the case.” A terrible lie, full of holes and just made up on the spot, but Sam was betting on Jeremy being too distraught to question much.

“Are you saying some corporate bastards killed my daughter?!”

“Now calm down, Jerry, we can’t-”

“I’m not going to calm down! I’m going to sue the fuckers for all they’re worth!”

“Please, Mr. Cartwright,” Dean continued, falling easily into step with the story they were spinning, “This visit is not about apportioning blame. If we can confirm she was under the influence, it will help the search for her. We want nothing more than to see your daughter found safe and alive.”

Sam got up from the sofa and took a closer look at the fireplace. It was pretty, yes, but slightly asymmetric. Some space had been cleared amongst the pictures (of a little smiling girl - Rachel?) on the mantle but nothing was there. One of the bricks on the right side of the grate seemed to jut out just a little bit too far.

“If it helps find Rachel, I’m willing to do anything.”

“Can you tell us if any of the rooms in this house have an… odd feeling associated with them? Strange emotions, anxiety, or feeling like the air suddenly gets colder?”

“Why?”

“Side effects of the hallucinogen.”

Sam crouched down next to the fireplace to inspect the strange brick. It looked jagged and precarious, and it wasn’t the right colour. While all the other bricks had been dulled by age, this one was brand new.

“Now that you mention it… yes. I have been feeling colder recently.” Jeremy shifted and fiddled awkwardly with his jacket. “I assumed it was the weather, but it’s been too sunny outside for it to be that. For the past two weeks, maybe, although it’s been especially noticeable since a few days ago. I’ve started wearing these jackets in the house.”

There was a soft grating sound as Sam worked the mismatched brick out of the grate. As he’d thought, there was nothing but friction attaching it there.

“Excuse me?!” Jeremy thundered. “What are you doing to my fireplace!” Sam ignored him, busy peering into the noticeable hole in the grate that went deeper than the brick’s length. If he could just stick his hand in there…

“No!” Susan, alerted by her husband’s protests, practically jumped out of her armchair and rushed over to slam her hand in front of the hole, preventing Sam from seeing what was back inside. “No, you can’t… I, I mean, it’s not what it looks like, I’m not…”

“Sam, what’s back there?”

“I’m not sure, I couldn’t make it out, but something is.”

There was an awkward silence, Susan holding both hands clasped over the grate with an expression like a deer caught in the headlights, Jeremy caught between confusion and rage but getting more angry by the second.

“Now… you two. You look here. This is  _my_  house, and I have been here for  _seventeen years_. What makes you think you have the right to-”

“Jerry.” Susan’s voice was pleading. “Jerry, please don’t. Just- just let me handle this, okay? Please.” She pulled her lips into a smile at him. “ _Please._  For me.” The thunderous expression on Jeremy’s face melted off into insecurity as his eyes flickered between the sofa where Dean was sitting and the fireplace. Then he sighed, closed his eyes, collected his thoughts, and gave a sharp nod.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” Then he left the room, giving one last glance over his shoulder at the three people who were all frozen in different positions, like some kind of freeze-frame still. The door swung shut. The tension in Susan’s body all dissipated once her husband was no longer there.

“I can explain, I really can. I had to hide it. I think - I think Jeremy might have done it. I think my husband killed my daughter. Oh god, I’m terrified.”

“What did you hide back there?” In answer to Sam’s question, Susan let her hands drop to her sides with a shaky breath and he plunged his arm inside. His fingers grasped something hard wrapped in something soft, and he slowly drew his hand out, the cloth of his shirt rustling against the bricks.

It was a dagger. A tiny knife wrapped in sturdy canvas cloth, the shape of it unmistakable to anyone who had ever handled a weapon. Sam unwrapped it with steady fingers as he carried it over to the sofa-side table where he set it down for Dean to see. The handle was bound by old leather that was surprisingly soft, and the blade itself had a few fingers of rust curling around strange symbols etched into it.

Susan watched them with terrified eyes.

“Why is there a knife here, Susan?” Sam’s voice was soft, non-judgemental.

“I-I brought it down a week ago. From the attic. It used to be my father’s. He always told me that if I was ever in danger, it would keep evil spirits away. It’s where I found his journal, too. I thought he was writing fictional stories, but… it’s all true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sam appraised the knife. “The blade is made of iron and the tip here is some kind of silver alloy. Should work against a wide variety of monsters, even if the length of it is too small to hunt with.” The entire knife was no longer than an unused pencil. He would have said it was a throwing knife, but the grip was all wrong and the centre of gravity wasn’t where it should be. “It’s for protection, I think. A last resort that you keep strapped to your body in case you end up unarmed when a hunt goes wrong. I wonder what these symbols mean.” He traced them with his finger.

“That doesn’t explain why,” Dean picked up, “you’re keeping it in a hollow in the fireplace. Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“L-like I said, I think… I think Jeremy had something to do with Rachel’s disappearance. We’re - we’ve been married nearly four years now, but the past few months things haven’t been doing so well. Rachel had been ignoring me, and when I asked her why she said she’d been forbidden to talk to me or she’d get hit. The next morning I saw her, and she had a black eye that when I asked her where it was from, she started crying and refused to say anything about it.”

“You think your husband is abusive?”

“Not to me. Just to Rachel. She’s not… I had her four years ago, and we met while I was pregnant. She’d been an accident, and my boyfriend had left me once he found I wanted to keep the baby, you see. But Jeremy proposed to me a week after I’d given birth, said he’d do anything to be a father and he couldn’t bear little Rachel growing up in poverty. It’s always been about Rachel, and I’ve always wondered if… if it was too good to be true. A stable income and an old family house and a dad that I’d never thought my daughter would have.” She swallowed thickly. “Always about Rachel, bordering on obsession. Like something sick. And then, one day, I was walking in the garden when I saw the-”

“Ssh.” Sam held up one hand and Susan stopped abruptly. He closed his eyes. Concentrating. Listening.

“Sam, what’s up?”

“He’s creeping up to the other side of the door.” Sam whispered under his breath. “I can hear the floorboards creaking.” He rose up off the sofa and stacked the two empty water glasses in his right hand. Then, with his left, he grasped the doorknob and opened it to reveal Jeremy Cartwright standing there, a shocked look on his face. Sam smiled his brightest smile. “Just wanted to pass these back to you, since we’re finished with them. I can see from the look of things you keep a tidy house, so I just couldn’t bear leaving them there. Here you go!”

“Uh, thanks.” Jeremy took the glasses with an air of bemusement, like he was uncertain why Sam hadn’t called him out for obviously trying to listen at the door. “I’ll just, um, load these in the dishwasher.” He backed away.

“You do that. We should be done soon, and then we’d like to briefly inspect the house before we return to the lab to analyse our results.”

Sam shut the door and turned back to his brother and Susan, both of whom were staring at him like he’d announced he would be sprouting an extra head next month.

“What?” He sat back down. “I just didn’t want him overhearing anything supernatural, that’s all.”

“Anyway,” Dean continued with a last slightly concerned glance at his little brother, “there’s a sure-fire way to either confirm or deny those theories. We need to ask Rachel herself.”

“S-she’s… I think she’s dead.”

“Exactly. We don’t need to know where her body is to question her, because her ghost is probably hanging around here somewhere. You said there were cold spots around?”

“All over the second floor of the house, especially in Rachel’s room and the top of the stairwell that leads there. There were times when I was cleaning and a chill came over the room, and I swore I felt someone tugging at my skirt. But when I turned around, there was nobody there.”

“That’s where we’ll start looking, then.” Dean picked up the knife from the table and twirled it between his fingers. There was salt in both of their pockets, of course, and they didn’t expect Rachel would be violent at all (or even capable of harm - she was four), but it never hurt to be prepared. “Do you mind if we carry this with us?”

“Not at all. There’s a box for it somewhere.” Susan scanned the room, eyes landing on the space between the pictures on the mantelpiece. She frowned. “That’s odd. I’m sure I left it right there… I must have put it somewhere else while dusting.”

“Doesn’t matter. It won’t be much use to us packed away in a box.” Dean stowed the knife in a pocket (it wasn’t particularly sharp) and rose to his feet. “Come on, Sammy. We have a kid to go have a chat with. Susan, it would probably be best if you stayed here. We don’t know what state Rachel will be in and it can be rather… traumatic to see someone you know like that.”

“Okay.”

Dean left the room, Sam trailing behind.

 

 

  
* * *

Once they were safely out of eyeshot, Dean rounded on Sam and said in a loud whisper,

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what? I don’t get what you’re saying.”

“Back there. The listening thing. There was  _no noise_ , Sammy. As a hunter I can tell you right here, right now, Jeremy was not making any sound. The floorboards here do not creak. They’re on the first floor, there’s nothing beneath them but foundations. Even now, no creaking. So how the hell did you know he was there?”

“They do creak. Listen.” Sam shifted his weight first to his right foot, then to his left. He could hear the tiny movements caused by the strain on the wood. They weren’t that loud, but they were undoubtedly there. What was Dean on about? “Hear it? They creak.”

“No, they don’t. I can’t hear anything when you do that.”

“Really? You must be half-deaf.”

“No, it’s not me. It’s you, Sam. You have some kind of freaky super-hearing, and I don’t like it. The demon blood isn’t out of your system.”

“Oh, come on. I’m clean, how many times do I have to say this? If it was still in me, my own blood would smell demonic, and it _doesn’t._  Not more than usual, anyway, what with what Yellow-Eyes did. It’s just good listening, that’s all.”

“Good listening? Huh. Then explain why you knew how to find the knife.”

“What?”

“You knew something was up, didn’t you? The moment we entered the room, you zoned in on that fireplace. It’s not  _normal_  to get so curious about a discoloured brick that you’d pull it out while the house owners were in the room. How many fingers am I holding up? Humour me.” He added at Sam’s incredulous expression.

“You have your hands behind your back. I’m not going to be able to tell.”

“Just pick a number then. Zero to ten.”

“Fine. …Six. Three on each hand, you’re making scout promise signs.” Sam gaped as Dean brought his hands back and revealed that, yes, he’d guessed right.  _Exactly_ right. “No. No way, I picked the least likely thing you’d ever do; you changed what they were in response to what I said.”

“No I didn’t. You’re getting the psychic future-sight again, and that has to be demon blood.”

“I am not! It was just lucky chance.” Sam started to feel sweat prickling across the back of his neck.

“Don’t lie to me. You and I both know something is up, from the second you came out of that panic room and said you smelled pancakes before they were cooking.”

“I… okay. Okay. I’m done with lying. Yes, I know there’s something different. The last three days, ever since I woke up on that room, everything has been different. It’s like - it’s like my body got upgraded, you know? I can see more detail and more colour, but bright light doesn’t blind me. I can hear…” He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. “I can hear the wind in the trees, and the tick of the clock in the room upstairs, and your heartbeat. But loud noises don’t startle me.”

“Why were you hiding this from me?”

“Because I was waiting for it to fade. And it has… a little.” Sam opened his eyes again and gave a shrug. “The best guess I can give is that the demon blood I consumed was close enough to Grace to activate the strengthening spells Ezekiel carved into me. Because it doesn’t feel like demon blood, not really. Demon blood is a hallucinogenic nightmare, and this is more… lucid. Even the psychic element isn’t overwhelming like the visions used to be. It just clicks like it was always meant to be this way. You got that? I’m fine, and I am pretty sure it’s slowly weakening.”

“Say it to my face. Look me in the eye and tell me that you just told me the whole truth.”

Sam blinked, then met Dean’s gaze.

“I do solemnly swear that what I just said was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Happy?”

“Yes, you scheming little lawyer. Now let’s go hunt a ghost.”

They passed the door to the kitchen just as Dean pulled out the EMF, and Jeremy saw them.

“Hey, what are you holding there?”

“This?” Dean waved the device around. It was fluctuating a little, but not that much, and not levels that would be out-of-place in a house with a working electrical supply. “This is a specialised piece of equipment used to detect airborne toxins.”

“Really? It looks like you ripped the electronics out of a walkman.”

Dean couldn’t help it - he snorted a little. “Oh, no. This device is highly expensive. It cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Now, if you’ll excuse us we would like to test the upstairs rooms.”

“Do you need a guide?”

“We can find our own way around, thanks.”

“Rachel’s room is the second door on the right upstairs. You can’t miss it.” They ascended the stairs, Jeremy watching them go. Then he slowly shook his head in bewilderment and headed to the lounge to ask his wife what the hell was going on.

“…I don’t buy it.”

“What don’t you buy, Dean?”

“The whole husband-killed-my-daughter thing. Jeremy’s not a psycho; I’ve met enough to know. I think Susan might have been withholding information from us to try to frame him. And let’s not forget, she _was_  keeping a knife in there.”

“You think she had something to do with it?!”

“Maybe. What’s your opinion?”

“I’m not good with poker faces, Dean, you know that.”

“But you do have your very own spidey-sense. So is it tingling or what?” Sam frowned.

“No, actually. I’m not getting creepy vibes from either of them. But I don’t know how it works, so I might be overlooking… Oooh. There’s something here. Do you feel it?”

They were at the top of the stairs, by a little alcove with a china vase on the table. EMF was beginning to spike, and a chill settled over the still air.

“Yeah, loud and clear.” Dean’s breath misted out in front of his face as he spoke. “Looks like it’s hanging around the vase, whatever it is. Did this used to be some kind of urn?” He swooped the reader towards and away from the table and, proving his point, there was an answering rising and fading whine.

“Whatever it is, it’s not going to be Rachel. Someone four years old won’t have much attachment to something like that. Come on, let’s head to her room - and don’t smash the vase. Last thing we need is a murderous old grandma on our hands.”

 

 

 

  
* * *

The second door on the right had a crayon drawing on it, with a sun (or was that two suns?) and a green scribble of grass, a house, and two stick figures holding hands - a boy and a girl.

Inside, Rachel’s room was small and cute. There were more pictures taped to the walls, some in crayon, some in acrylic paint with a few smudged fingerprints around the edges. She was obviously a fan of rainbow colours, stuffed animals (the bedside table was chock full of them, some old and tattered and stuffed with pillow fluff) and art. There was a little apron draped over a kid’s easel in one corner of the room, and the wardrobe was covered in stickers of Disney characters. The comforter was Disney-themed with a Mickey Mouse pillow, and a copy of J.M. Barry’s Peter Pan was the only thing on the chest of drawers.

It was also cold in here. Noticeably cold, colder even than outside. EMF was going haywire.

“Rachel?” Dean called to the empty room. “Rachel, are you there? We’d like to talk to you for a bit.”

A breeze picked up though the window was shut, and it danced around them breathing goosebumps over their arms. Dean reached into his pocket and clasped a handful of salt, just in case.

“There. On the bed.” Sam pointed, and a few seconds later the air began to shimmer and a little child’s form appeared, curled up into a ball and sulking with her arms crossed. They recognised Rachel from the pictures on the mantle downstairs. “Rachel, hello.” She looked over at them, wide eyed.

“You can see me?” Her voice was high-pitched and childlike, sounding slightly incredulous. “For real? You’re not being mean and playing a trick?”

“‘Course not.” Dean moved closer to her. “Is it okay if we talk about a few things?”

“No!” Rachel flinched away from Dean and jumped over to the other side of the bed. “Go ‘way. Don’t like you. You’re not nice, you’re a grown-up.” Sam stepped forward and motioned for Dean to back off, which he did.

“How about if I crouch down like this?” Sam sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room. “Now I’m not really a grown-up, am I? I’m not tall enough.”

“Hmm.” Rachel seemed to consider before hesitantly stepping closer. “…No, you’re not a grown-up. You’re a fairy!”

“I’m a fairy?” Sam said with a note of put-on incredulity in his tone. “Am I a nice fairy?”

“Yup, you’re nice.” Rachel squeezed him in a hug as if to prove her point. “You’re all tingly and glowy like a fairy, and you’ve got wings. Only nice fairies have wings, because not-nice fairies aren’t nice enough to get them.” She said this all matter-of-factly like a master of the subject. “You’re just like Tinkerbell.”

Dean, who had brought out a handful of salt as soon as he saw his little brother come into contact with a ghost, relaxed and grinned.

“Hear that, Sammy? Tinkerbell’s your new nickname.”

“Mister fairy, can you please tell the grown-up to go away? I’m not allowed to talk to grown-ups and he’s really, really scary.” They were still hugging - well, more like Sam was still sitting on the floor and Rachel was now sort-of draped around his shoulder and using him as a shield from Dean.

“That’s my brother. I know he looks all mean and ugly, but deep down he’s not too bad. Is there a reason you’re afraid of him?” Rachel nodded.

“He’s got something. Something not very nice, and it smells like it’s gonna burn me.”

“Dean, do you have salt out? Put it back, Rachel’s nice.” Sam asked. Dean surreptitiously stowed his hand back in his pocket and let the handful of crystals go. “See? He put it away. Does that make it better?”

“…No. But I guess if he’s your brother, then he can’t be  _too_  nasty. He can be an on’rary fairy.” Rachel stuck out her tongue at Dean, who beamed back, seemingly thrilled at his new status.

“So, Rachel, how are… things?” Dean didn’t know how to say ‘since you died’ without causing some kind of upset. Rachel frowned.

“Um… not very good. Daddy’s not talking to me and neither is Mummy. Peter says it’s because they’re grown-ups and they don’t believe, so I shouldn’t even talk to them if I don’t want to become an old boring grown-up.”

“Peter? Who’s Peter?” Rachel giggled.

“Silly you! You’re a fairy, you have to know who Peter is!” She looked at Sam and her face fell. “Peter Pan? You do know who he is, right?”

“Oh, right, Peter Pan!” Sam’s eyes flickered briefly to the book on the dresser. “Of course I know who he is. Is he your friend?”

“Yup! Always has been. Mummy and Daddy can’t see him because they’re grown-ups, but Daddy reads to me about him before I go to bed. He visits me every day.”

An imaginary friend, then. Certainly not uncommon for a girl her age, though there might be something else going on here.

“Rachel, I need you to think back very carefully, to five days ago. Can you tell me what you were doing?”

“Huh? Five days ago… um…” Rachel detached herself from Sam and flopped out on the bed. “I think I was doing finger painting. And Daddy and Mommy were yelling at each other, so I was being upset in my room. Peter was upset too, because he’d lost one of the pirate chests, so I got it back for him. And… Oh! That was the day I got pixie dust on me!” She smiled. “Watch!”

“Pixie dust…?” Dean’s question was answered when Rachel closed her eyes, smiled, and began to float up towards the ceiling.

“I just think happy thoughts and now I can fly! And Peter’s really happy ‘cause now I won’t ever have to grow up.”

“How exactly did you get pixie dust on you? Where were you?” It was the weirdest death euphemism Sam had ever heard, but he rolled with it.

“Oh, Peter gave me some after I gave him back the pirate chest. He showed me how to fly even if it kept hurting at first. We were in his secret hideout.”

“And where’s that?”

“It’s a secret, silly! I’m not allowed to say.” There was a crash from downstairs and Rachel instinctively flinched, dropping back onto the bed with a thump that shouldn’t have been silent, but was. “Oh no, Mummy and Daddy are yelling again. That’s not good.”

There was the sound of someone storming up the stairs, and Rachel’s eyes were suddenly a bit teary.

“I’m gonna… gonna go hide out with Peter. Can you say you didn’t see me, ‘kay?” She began to float again, up, up and up… passing through the ceiling just as Jeremy stormed into the room.

“Monsters! Demons, ghosts, witches! What in the blazes have you been spinning to my wife, to make her believe these lies of yours?!”

“Mr. Cartwright, we can explain-”

“No! This household is a Christian household, and I will have no more of this nonsense corrupting my family! How  _dare_  you use my daughter’s disappearance as some way to spread your, your filthy pagan beliefs! Out! Out!” He grabbed Dean’s arm and bodily yanked him towards the door. “And never come back!”

In less than five seconds Dean had slipped out of Jeremy’s grip and had the older man pinned in a lock against the wall with one arm, the other one holding the knife just below his throat. It wasn’t sharp, so there was no danger of cutting the skin, but there was no way he could know that. Jeremy squeaked and went still.

“Now I’m going to say this once, and you will listen so I don’t have to repeat myself. I’ve had a very stressful few months, and I am this-” The knife moved an inch further up, “Close to snapping. Alright?”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“No, I’m not. But take it on good authority that I know  _exactly_  how to carve someone up from the inside in ways excruciating beyond your imagination. So don’t cross me.”

No answer.

“Good. Now listen up. Demons, monsters, ghosts? It’s all real. Rachel is dead. I know this because we were just  _talking to her ghost_. In this room. She doesn’t even think that she’s dead, she just thinks you’ve been ignoring her. We were working on finding out where her body was, but you interrupted us. So what I want you to do is go back downstairs, sit tight, and wait  _quietly_  while we sort this thing out. You got that?”

A shaky nod.

“Off you go then.” Dean released his hold and took a few steps back. Jeremy sagged, breathing hard and shakily, against the wall. He looked at the two of them with actual terror in his eyes and didn’t look like he would risk moving. “It’s alright. Just go back downstairs.”

“…We know about Peter, by the way. We think he’s a ghost here too.”

Jeremy drew in a shocked gasp and, turning, bolted from the room. Sam and Dean watched him go.

“At least that got him out of the way.”

“Dean, he’s just going to call 911 and bring the police down on us.”

“Is he, though?”

“…No.” Sam didn’t know how he knew or even why, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen. “Still wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”

“I’ve changed my mind. He’s our prime suspect and he needs to know I’m not pandering any longer. Good thinking about Peter, by the way. How’d you guess he wasn’t just an imaginary friend?” Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh wait, don’t answer that.”

 

 

  
* * *

Once downstairs, Jeremy stumbled into the kitchen. The phone was on the wall. His heart was fluttering like a terrified bird and he tasted vomit in the very back of his mouth. The police. He needed the police.

He reached out a trembling hand, and watched goosebumps flare along his skin as the room suddenly grew cold. A draft swirled around him and for a moment he thought he felt a tiny fist grip his trouser leg.

He froze. Slowly looked around. Nobody was there. But what… what if there was someone? For the first time since his childhood, Jeremy’s non-belief in monsters was shaken. What if the two upstairs had been telling the truth?

“Rachel? Rachel, is that you? You’re there, aren’t you? I know you’re there.”

A little light appeared two feet away from him and Jeremy gasped. It melted and molded into a shape. A little child. His daughter.

“Daddy? Daddy, can you see me?” She reached out and touched again. Her hand was cold, like a breath of air.

“Yes, Rachel. I can see you. You’re really there.” He didn’t know or care if he was finally losing it, because all he could think about was his child standing in front of him, reaching out arms like she wanted to be picked up. So he did, and hugged her tightly. Her body did not feel earthly.

“Daddy, you can see me! You believe in me!” Ghostly teardrops fell onto his shoulder. “Thank you Daddy.Thank you. Daddy, there’s something I need you to do.”

 

 

  
* * *

“What’s up with this vase?” Dean picked it up and moved the EMF slowly over it, trying to find the exact area where it spiked. To his annoyance, there didn’t seem to be one. The readings had dropped off.

“I don’t think it’s the vase,” Sam said at the other end of the hallway, inspecting the alcove. “There’s just a cold spot hanging around this area in general. And a smell. Can you smell it?”

“No. What does it smell like?”

“Like decay. Put the vase down and help me find what’s causing it, would you?”

Dean balanced the vase carefully on the window sill and walked towards where Sam was. Sure enough, EMF went haywire again.

“Is it something underneath the table?”

“Might be.” But when they checked - nothing. Not in the carpet, not around the back corner where the wall met the floor. If anything, the readings seemed to tail off.

There was a scratching sound, like an old ink pen or a rodent scrabbling around a wooden plank. It came from above him. Sam looked up.

“Dean.” Dean saw where he was staring and followed his gaze to the ceiling. Then, without words, he passed over the EMF and Sam held it up next to the trapdoor that was up there.

The loudest squeal yet emitted from the device.

“Gotcha. Susan said there was an attic.”

“Yeah. That’s where she got the journal and the knife.”

“You first, or me?”

“Me.” Dean reached up to the hook of the trapdoor and gave it a sharp yank, clicking it out from the ceiling, then unfolded the ladder until it touched the carpeted floor narrowly missing the table. He screwed up his nose as a wash of freezing, rotten air drifted over him. “Eugh. I think we found our body.”

The attic was rickety and rundown with dark, splintered floorboards. There was a single lightbulb, but flicking the switch revealed that it had blown, probably months or even years ago. It didn’t look like the place had been taken care of by anyone. What had to be heaps of junk storage was stacked against the walls, although they couldn’t tell without a flashlight exactly what was there. EMF was a constant, squealing whine, and the air crystallised clouds from their breath. Dean clicked the meter off and stowed it in his pocket, drawing salt into his hand instead.

The stench of a dead animal was nauseating and filled their lungs with putrid stink. He coughed.

“Oh god, I can barely breathe.”

“You can go wait down there if you want,” Sam pointed out, trying to be helpful. The smell was intense, but it didn’t really bother him. He wondered why - with the sense thing, you’d think it would be the other way around, but it seemed like his tolerance for strong sensations had risen too.

“Hell no, I’m not missing out on this. You have a flashlight on you?” In answer, Sam pulled it out of his pocket and clicked it on. The beam shone through thousands of tiny dust particles, landing on what had previously been just a dark shape in the corner.

Rachel’s body was hanging, lifeless, by a noose from a rafter. A tipped-over chair lay near her dangling feet.

“Suicide. It was a suicide.”

They stepped forwards, the floorboards creaking and groaning under their weight, to get a better look at the corpse. She was wearing the same thing her ghost had been wearing - a pale blue dress with yellow flowers around the hem, though this one had a jagged, slightly bloody rip up one side where it had caught on a nail attached to a rafter.

The whole place was eerily still. Haunted.

“Do you feel that, Sam?”

“What? No, I dont think so. Unless you mean the cold, in which case yeah, but it’s not bothering me.”

“It’s just… lonely.”

“Lonely?” Sam turned around to give him an incredulous look. “Haunted mansion with corpse dangling from rafter, and the word you go for is  _lonely_?”

“Really lonely. Terrifyingly lonely. Like… I-want-to-kill-myself lonely. Something’s influencing the atmosphere in here. What’s that?” Dean pointed at a gloomy shape slightly to the left of Rachel and Sam flicked over the flashlight beam.

There was a desk there, its top clear of all junk except a wooden box carved with symbols and an old quill pen resting on top of a crinkled-up sheet of paper. Like someone had screwed it into a ball and then painstakingly smoothed it out, but they couldn’t quite take away the creases.

“There’s writing on it.”

“The paper?”

“No, the box. Well, the paper too.” Sam picked the box up - it was more like a chest, really. A tiny one. “These symbols look similar to the ones on that knife Susan gave you. Maybe it’s the container for it.” Sure enough, it clicked open to reveal a felt depression just the right size for a pencil-length dagger.

“But didn’t she say that was in the lounge? Nobody could have moved it up here without discovering the body.”

The paper was written on in blue ink from the quill pen, and there were numerous crossings out and ink-blots. The handwriting was the shaky, spidery handwriting of someone who hadn’t got much practice in calligraphy but was at least attempting to be somewhat neat. It read:

_Dear Rashel Rachel_

_I am sorry for evry every thing but I want a Mom Pleace acept lion and teddy and weezel I put then in yoor your room on top of this Your Mom is still bad and I hate her because she smells like a croccodile. The box was nice but its empty and somebody took IT pleace tell Daddy to bring IT here._

The text cut off abruptly there, not even a third of the way down the paper.

“Right literary genius, the kid who wrote this. It’s not Rachel though, she’s not going to write to herself.” Dean brushed his thumb over the paper.

The ink smudged.

Dean locked eyes with Sam, conveying to him one of the something’s-out-there-right- _now_  looks they’d perfected over the years, and he swung the flashlight around in a wide arc of the room.

There was a little boy, ghost-grey, in the opposite corner. He flinched as the light hit him but then narrowed his eyes and stalked towards them.

“Stop reading my letters. It’s not funny.”

“You’re Peter, right?” Sam asked. “Peter Pan?”

“Put it back. Now.” was all he got by way of reply. Sam gently set the box on the table.

“Don’t be angry at us. We just want to talk.”

“Not you. Him. Tell him to put it back.”

“I don’t have anything.” Peter scowled at Dean who gave a shrug. “What am I supposed to put back?”

 _“My knife!_ ” He screeched. “Don’t pretend you don’t have it. I can  _smell_  it on you. The burning. Put. It. Back.” He glared at them, eyes glowing bright with fury.

“What, this?” Dean pulled out the silver-tipped dagger from his shirt and let the torchlight beam flash on it. Peter flinched away from him.

“Yes! Put it back! Please put it back and close the box! Close it!”

“Why should I?” It seemed like the knife’s mere presence was hurting him. Maybe the tale about warding against evil spirits was literal.

“Because  _I said so_ , that’s why! Put it back or I kill  _him_.” Peter turned to Sam and held out a hand in his direction. He narrowed his eyes, then opened them wide and drew in a shocked breath. “What are- no, what- what are you? Why isn’t it working?!”

“…No idea.” Sam chirped chirpily. Peter screamed a wordless, blood curdling yell of frustration and rounded on Dean.

“Then put it back or I’ll kill  _you_!”

Dean gasped and fell to his knees, fists hitting the floor in front of him as he leaned over, breathing hard. His grip on the knife loosened and it clattered across the floorboard with the momentum of his fall. He didn’t reach out for it.

“Dean!” Sam crouched down and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Can you breathe? What’s wrong?” To his shock, Dean was  _crying_. Tears were trickling down his cheek.

“Sammy?” His voice sounded so broken and pathetic Sam just wanted to pull his brother into a hug, murderous ghost or no. So he did. “Sammy, help me. I’m so lonely. I’m all alone.”

“What did you do to him?” Peter didn’t reply but stood there still, smirking, and Dean whimpered as he reached his hand out for the knife. “Oh, no you don’t.” Sam snatched it up before he could grab it, wary of what Dean might do if he got his hands on a weapon like this.

“Put it back. Put my knife back in the box and I’ll make it all go away.”

“No. I don’t listen to monsters.” That got a reaction out of him - hurt, then more anger, replacing the smirk. “You end this, whatever it is, and I’ll think about it.”

“Sammy, please. I need it. The knife, the Colt, anything. Kill me; I want to die.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Thirty years. On the rack. Nobody looked, nobody helped, nobody even cared. I refused to scream for the first eight, then I couldn’t hold out any longer. And you know what? Nobody cared about that either. Alistair… took me apart, inch by excruciating inch, but not even the most tormented soul ever dies in Hell. The reapers aren’t allowed in. And when I took up the knife? I was still alone. One among hundreds but all by myself. And torturing others… was a worse torture than being the mangled soul on the rack had ever been. So, Sammy, don’t you  _dare_ … Don’t you even fucking  _dare_  tell me I don’t mean what I’m saying. I want it to be over. So hurry up and kill me.”

“This isn’t you. You need to snap out of this.”

“Hah!” Dean was overtaken by wracking sobs into a coughing fit. “Fuck that, I need to die.” Without warning he lunged for the knife and tried to wrench it out of Sam’s hand, but Sam had predicted that would happen and by the time Dean had managed to grab his fist, it was empty and the dagger was arcing not-to-gracefully in a trajectory across the attic. Peter, terrified, ran back out of its way, and it landed somewhere in the gloomy clutter a way away.

“What did you do to my brother?”

“I made him feel like I feel. I’m lonely up here so now so is he. But why aren’t you lonely too? There’s a halo of glowing light around you. You have a guardian angel watching over your soul. You’re never gonna be alone.”

“Ezekiel’s gone, that’s not right.”

“No, he isn’t,” Peter said simply. “He’s looking at me through your eyes.”

Dean had degenerated to incoherent mumblings and his other hand had relaxed, allowing the salt to drain onto the attic floor. Sam was still trying to process what he’d just heard, but he had the sense of mind to subtly take a large pinch.

“He’s looking at me through your eyes, and he’s angry. ‘Cause I’m not supposed to see him, and I’m not supposed to tell you, and he doesn’t know how I can do it. But he’s not going to show himself, because then you’d know for sure that he’s there.”

“You’re lying. You’re making this up.”

“ _Don’t call me a liar!”_  Rage rose again and Peter lunged, arms outstretched, groping for Sam’s neck. Sam threw the salt over him and with a crackle he dispersed. Dean shuddered and took in a great gulp of air.

“…Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-” He gulped down a shudder. “It’s gone. It’s gone, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Wiping his face on his sleeves to remove the tear tracks, Dean stood up. “Just, just forget it ever happened, okay? And if you mention this to Bobby or anyone else, I swear I will shave you bald with a razor while you’re sleeping. So you know.”

“Nah, wouldn’t want them to know that deep down you’re a crybaby, would we? Come on, we need to go get the guns. And find that knife again.”

 

 

  
* * *

Nobody bothered them on their way down to the car. Neither of the adults approached them or saw them out. Rachel didn’t manifest, and neither did the spirit of Peter Pan - or whoever the hell he was. They really needed to ask.

But loaded up on rock salt, with the dagger back in Dean’s pocket and Peter’s ghost still nowhere in sight, their confidence was running high as they checked the lounge to see where Susan and Jeremy had gotten off to.

“Susan. Where’s your husband?” She looked up from the sofa.

“He said he was going upstairs. He said he’d seen Rachel, and she had told him to find something. It’s really true? She’s here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. But we also have another ghost hanging around, one that’s not so friendly. That’s why we need you in the kitchen for your own protection.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you’ll want a salt ring on the carpet.”

They poured out the ring onto the vinyl floor of the kitchen and she sat down inside of it, clearly frightened but also curious.

“This keeps ghosts away?”

“And a whole load of other stuff. Salt’s a good choice if you don’t know what you’re facing. And speaking of that, do you have any idea who Peter is?”

“Peter?”

“Peter Pan.”

“You mean… from the storybook? Of course I know. It was one of Rachel’s favourite books. She learned to read at three just so she could read it to herself every night.”

“We’re thinking Peter Pan, or at least someone pretending to be him, is a ghost roaming around the house.” Sam explained. “So, do you know of anyone that could be? A house this old and big must have at least a few sad tales or spooky stories that come with it.”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, but I moved in here four years ago with Rachel because Jerry invited us. I wasn’t involved in buying the house, so I wouldn’t know. But…”

“But what?”

“I was going to mention it… before. I was about to, before you heard Jerry listening in. In the garden there’s a grave. A kid’s grave, and the headstone says P. Cartwright. That’s what sparked off my believing Jerry had kidnapped Rachel. I thought he might have done the same thing before. He is clear, isn’t he? He didn’t do it?”

“There’s no way Jeremy killed Rachel, don’t worry.”

“Killed?” Oops, they hadn’t remembered to tell her.

“Yeah.” Dean grimaced; he hated giving bad news. “Her body’s in the attic. Don’t go look, it’s not that pretty.”

“The attic?” Susan was aghast. “But that’s where Jerry went! He came in here to look for the knife but I told him you had taken it, so he went upstairs and I heard him opening the trapdoor. Oh, oh dear…”

“Crap.” All the evidence now was pointing to Jeremy having a hand in Peter’s death. Which meant the guy had just walked into the lair of a quite possibly murderous ghost out for revenge. If they didn’t do something soon, the chances of another killing were pretty high.

 

 

  
* * *

They ran through the hall, Sam after Dean, shotguns loaded with rock salt strapped across their backs. All was quiet in the house above, and the smell of rotten meat was beginning to drift down the stairwell, carried by the sinking draft of freezing air.

“Why are we even doing this?” Dean asked as they took the stairs two at a time. “This is a salt and burn. She even told us where his grave was. So why aren’t we outside with a shovel right now?”

“Because we have to protect Jeremy.”

“He murdered a kid. I’m a-okay with letting him die.”

“Since when did your morals get all twisted up?”

“Since Hell, that’s when!” Dean stopped on the staircase and Sam had to grab the bannister to prevent crashing into him. “Since I tortured people like him, and I liked it. Because, you murder a child, you deserve every single thing that’s coming for you.”

“Well if you’re not doing this, I  _am_. Everyone is worth saving. Everyone.” Sam overtook his older brother and was facing away from him as he climbed the ladder up to the trapdoor, so he missed Dean’s pitying gaze. Like Sam was an idealistic, naive little brother that didn’t understand how the world really worked.

Jeremy was up in the attic. Peter was with him, next to him, and both were lit by the pale glow of a naked lightbulb hanging from high up in the rafters they hadn’t noticed before. They had been talking about something but their heads has snapped around as soon as they caught sight of Sam.

 _“You!_ ” Peter exclaimed. “Why can’t you just go ‘way, give me back my knife, and leave me ‘lone!”

“I can’t do that. You killed Rachel.” He brought the shotgun out into his hand and took aim, ready to fire if he showed even the slightest sign of that… thing he’d done before.

“You don’t understand anything!”

“We understand enough.” Dean had climbed the ladder too and had his shotgun raised and pointed. “Jeremy, I suggest you get the fuck away from him. These bullets aren’t going to kill you but they sting pretty badly.”

“I…” Jeremy Cartwright looked between the two hunters and Peter’s ghost. “But, I can’t…”

“Daddy,” Peter crooned, “Don’t listen to them. They’re not nice. None of the grown-ups are ever nice. They want to hurt me, Daddy. You can’t let them.” Jeremy took one step closer to him, then another, then another. Peter stretched out his hand, and he took it. “You gotta keep me safe, Daddy. Please?”

Sam sensed it early, but still too late to do anything but yell out a warning.

“Dean, don’t-!” Dean fired the gun. The bullet hit Jeremy’s shoulder and he went down to his knees with a yell of pain. Peter had dodged with inhuman speed and was now crouched behind his dad, using his body as a human shield.

“See, Daddy? They’re hurting you now, too. Can you feel it?”

“I can…” Jeremy’s eyes were blank, glazing over as drops of blood began to trickle down from his shoulder. “Lonely…”

“‘S how I felt-  _stay where you are_.” Peter’s eyes flashed up to where Dean had been inching to the right to get a clear shot. “Or I kill him. Daddy, you’re not gonna mind, right? It’s for me.” Jeremy whimpered and shook his head as tiny, pale hands wrapped around his neck. “You take one more step and he dies.”

There was nothing else to do - they were at a stalemate. So without other options, Dean played their trump card. He slung the shotgun back on his back and pulled the knife into his hand.

Peter gasped as he stared at it, the rest of his body shrinking back further behind his dad.

“You want this back in the box, right?”

“Yes!” It was a fearful keen.

“Let him go, step away from him, and then I’ll do that. But you have to go first.” Dean was lying through his teeth. Sam could see through his poker face any time of the day. It looked like Peter wasn’t convinced either.

“You just wanna kill me. ‘Mnot leaving.”

The light bulb flickered and a breeze kicked up puffs of dust from the floor. Then, suddenly Rachel was there. She was standing next to her body, looking up at the hanging corpse with a strange expression on her face.

“Ra’! You gotta help me!” Peter yelled, and she spun around wide-eyed.

“Peter? Peter!” Running over, Rachel placed herself firmly between the two groups, arms spread out wide. “You can’t hurt him! He’s my friend!”

“He killed you, Rachel!” Dean exclaimed, and the hand not holding the knife relaxed from a half-bunched fist into a flat palm, five fingers splayed out at his side. “That’s your body; I know you know it is.” The thumb was tucked under. Four fingers left.

“I did it so she wouldn't never have to grow up! ‘Cause grown-ups are bad!” Another finger down. Three to go. Rachel seemed hesitant.

“But… But Daddy’s not bad, is he?”

“Yeah he is! He never did nothing to help me. And Mummies are useless because they always die. You just wait, your Mummy’s gonna die too.” Two fingers. Sam edged to the left. Peter was too busy to notice.

“I… Peter, why can’t we all just walk away? And not fight?”

“Because I already tried that! And they burned me. And they’re gonna burn me again too.” One finger left.

“No, no they’re not!” Rachel crossed her arms and humphed. “‘Cause they’re going to have to go through me first!”

The last finger flicked up. They sprang into action simultaneously - Sam ran left, aiming the shotgun half-blindly and pulling the trigger, feeling the thump of a bullet’s discharge. Dean darted right and forwards, the iron knife flashing in his hand, and slashed at Rachel.

Peter was faster than either of them. Or maybe time worked differently for spirits, but he had time to register the movement, understand what was happening, let out a gasp of terrible, terrible fear - and run toward Rachel, arm outstretched, clutching first at thin air then at ghostly clothing as he pulled his younger sister out of the way.

The salt bullet thudded into the rafter. The knife thudded into Peter’s chest.

He didn’t disperse. Instead he stumbled, mouth open wide in a silent gasp as Dean withdrew the dagger and looked at it critically.

“…You know, I could have sworn this was iron. Huh.”

“Peter!” He no longer had the strength to stand up, and had crumpled to the ground with Rachel desperately tugging at his arm. “Peter?” She was crying, seeing light spilling out of the cut like blood, dispersing in the air. Peter screamed and clutched the place over his heart.

“What the fuck? Ghosts don’t have fits!”

“You can’t see it?” Sam asked Dean.

“See what?” Well, that answered the question.

“The glowy stuff. That’s pouring out of the knife wound.”

“Ghosts don’t get knife wounds.”

They were interrupted by Peter’s bloodcurdling scream of pain as the trickle of light (was that  _soul?_ ) increased to a gushing stream.

“Please… help me! Please! Daddy!” Jeremy looked on, stunned with shock and unable to say a word. “Sam! Dean! Please, anyone!” He knew their names?! “ _Help me!”_

They couldn’t help. They couldn’t do anything but watch as the ghost boy pleaded and writhed on the splintered wooden attic floor. Sam fired the shotgun again, twice - once, Rachel dispersed into nothing; she didn’t need to see this. The second time, the bullet skidded through Peter and broke apart on the floor seemingly without harming him. Sam knew better though; he could see more. He could see the way the bullet had ripped a glowing, bleeding hole through Peter’s body and the way he curled up in terror as the wounds began to fester and bubble, pulling him apart molecule by molecule in the most excruciating death possible. His screams echoed through the house, stopped only when his ghostly vocal chords dissolved from his neck (like acid, burning) and he could only manage choked, gurgling gasps.

His eyes were the last thing to go, and they were focused on Jeremy in terror as the light overtook them too. Then he was gone, and the only sign of any ghost ever having been there was the cracked bullet casings and scatters of rock salt on the floor.

“Fuck.” Really, what could you say? That was torture, plain and simple. Jeremy was staring blank-eyed at the space where his son used to be, muscles trembling. “Can you get up? How much of that were you aware for?”

“…Enough.” He shakily stood and wiped his brow with a sleeve. “Oh, Peter…”

“Your son?” Sam asked. A confirming nod. “And he’s the one buried in the garden, right? The headstone there says ‘P. Cartwright’.”

“Did you kill him?” Dean interjected. Jeremy’s face got an aghast look.

“What? No, I didn’t- No! He died of measles… eleven years ago. In my arms. He was six.”

“Is he lying, Sam?”

“No.”

“Then… sorry, I guess. For scaring you in the hallway.”

“It’s okay. It had to be… done.” Jeremy trailed off as he glanced back towards his daughter’s hanging body. “Rachel…”

“If you don’t mind, we’d like to give her a proper send off. Cremation. It’ll help move her spirit on. Peter’s too, we’ll do them both.”

“Would it be like…  _that_?” The scene he had just witnessed. Horrifying.

“No, of course not. Salting and burning is quick, and it’s not painful at all. It would be over in seconds.”

“Then… I’d like that. But if Rachel doesn’t want it, then I don’t want it either.”

“We’ll ask her when she reappears. But for now, let’s get her body down from there and carry it out to somewhere nicer, like the garden.”

 

 

  
* * *

They used the knife to undo the tight knot in the rope and gently lowered Rachel to the floor. She didn’t smell nice, but they were used to the stench by now. Jeremy carried his daughter’s body down the ladder, one hand hugging her and one hand on the rail. Dean followed with Sam going last, having stayed behind to pick up the box for the strange knife.

Susan watched them process through the hallway, wide-eyed with one hand over her mouth as she saw what had become of Rachel.

“Oh my-”

“Don’t worry, it’s safe now. You can step out of the circle.”

The four of them stepped outside, and the fresh air whirled away the smell of rot until it could have been that she was merely sleeping. They laid her down on the grass next to the headstone of Peter’s grave, and Sam and Dean excused themselves to go get shovels.

“Well? Are you happy now?”

“Happy about what, Sammy? I don’t like burying kids.”

“Well, you thought Jeremy killed his kid so you said he was a psychopath that needed to die. But when you stabbed Peter, you killed him too. So are you making an exception for yourself, or are monsters somehow beneath all pity?”

“Don’t try guilting me in this.” Dean picked up the two shovels from the boot and tossed one to Sam, who caught it expertly. “I didn’t know what that knife was going to do. And I’ve done worse things. In Hell. Far, far worse things. So yeah, I guess that makes me a psychopath. But you and me? We’re all that stands between the good guys and the really scary stuff, so excuse me if I don’t give a damn about double standards. Come on, the sooner we start digging the more likely we’ll be able to settle this before dark.”

“Yeah… one thing’s bothering me, though. That thing he did with his mind. That’s not a normal thing for a ghost to be able to do, right?”

“No. Telempathy like that is a demon thing, not a ghost thing.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ll ask Bobby about it later.”

They spent the first half-hour digging in silence, working their way down through the topsoil until Sam felt a gentle, cold touch on his trousers. Rachel had appeared behind him.

“Where’d Peter go? He’s not here anymore.” Sam gently laid his shovel against the side of the hole and then crouched down to her level - it wasn’t hard, they’d managed to dig a good two feet already, giving her a height boost.

“He went to Neverland.”

“Really?” She asked earnestly. “He found the way to Neverland?”

“Yes. You see, Neverland’s this island way up there in the sky and once you go there you’ll never grow up, right?”

“Yup! He told me all about it! But he couldn’t ever find the way.”

“Would you like to go there too, Rachel? Once you go, you can’t come back.” She nodded.

“I wanna stay with Peter.”

“Then let’s go find your father.”

Jeremy was sitting alone underneath a tree, staring aimlessly into space with a damp handkerchief in his pocket. Rachel jumped into his arms and grinned at him.

“Daddy!”

“Rachel! Oh, I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Daddy, can I- can I go to Neverland? Tinkerbell says he can take me there. Can I go, Daddy?”

“…Of course, dearie. If that’s what you want.”

“I do! But, I’ll miss you… and Mummy too. And my room and all my pictures. So… can I have a bit of time,” She gave her best doe-eyed look to Sam, “To say goodbye?”

“Of course you can.”

“Yay!” She jumped out of Jeremy’s arms and floated gently upwards into the branches of the tree. “Okay, I’m gonna say goodbye to everything. Wow, I can see so much from up here!” With a childlike laugh and a breeze that ruffled the leaves, she faded from sight.

They watched her go.

“Jeremy, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Peter?”

“No, not at all. What would you like to know?”

“Was there anything ever… different about him? Back when he was alive?”

“Different? Oh. Well… he wasn’t a very happy child. We moved into this house when he was very young, after I lost Anne and gave up my job to take care of him. We never quite fit into the neighbourhood, so I guess that was why… but none of the other kids invited him around for playdates, and when he invited them nobody would ever show up. And we was very sickly a lot of the time. He had asthma and damaged lungs from smoke inhalation. He was allergic to many things, too, including the vaccines they give, so he never had one. Caught the disease from a boy whose parents had opted out at school. If they’d given it to their child, Peter would probably still be here.”

“Smoke inhalation?” A strange feeling settled over Sam. Like something important was about to be said.

“Our apartment building burned to the ground. Sixteen people died; it made the national news. I was away on a business trip, but my wife… was one of the sixteen. A neighbour pulled Peter out, and I wanted to thank them but they gave their statement and left to find their family. I haven’t been ever able to contact them.”

“And when? When was this?”

“Sixteen years ago.” Sam swallowed. The back of his throat had gone dry.

“How old… was Peter?”

“Six months old.”

“Exactly?”

“…Yes. How did you-?”

“Oh, it was just a lucky guess. I’m getting good at those lately.”

“Please, if it wasn’t an accident, you have to tell me! They said it was a gas leak, said it started in our rooms, but I never believed them. I - I have to know. Please.”

“No. Don’t worry, it was a gas leak. Just an accident.” There were some things that you shouldn’t ever tell a parent about their lost child. It would sully their memory - and Peter’s memory had been sullied enough already. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to digging.”

Back at the hole, Dean was also taking a break, sitting out on the grass.

“What? You skip out on dirt crunching duty, I’m not doing your share. Besides, I went and asked Susan over there about the knife.” He gave a general wave in the direction of the house. “She’s been scouring through the journal. Turns out her Daddy nicked it off a vampire nest somewhere up in Canada, and from the looks of it they bought it from somewhere for a hefty price. It can kill what’s already dead, or so the translation of the inscription says.”He held it up, the blade glistening in the evening sun. “Don’t you see? We’re not just talking ghosts. Zombies, or vampires, or animated necromancer minions. Highly effective. Not demons, though - apparently they’re damned, not dead.”

“You want us to take the knife? That’s stealing, you do know that.”

“Nah, Susan said we could have it.”

“Fine. Listen, I know where Peter got the telempathy powers.”

“Where?”

“Azazel. His real mother died, in a house fire, when he was exactly six months old. Too much of a coincidence. There were loads of us who never made it to Cold Oak, and I guess Peter was one of them.”

“A special child? Huh. Did you find this out from somewhere, or have your super-secret-psychic-senses granted you his backstory?”

“I asked Jeremy. Let’s get back to digging.”

The sun had sunk beneath the tree line, throwing the garden into dappled shade, when Dean’s spade hit wood with a thunk. From there it was only ten minutes until they got the coffin open. The bones inside were tiny and frail-looking. Sam went to get the salt and lighter-fluid as Dean gently picked up Rachel’s body to put it beside them.

He came back to find a slightly shimmering, ghostly body sitting on the headstone. Rachel looked up at him as he silently handed the materials to his brother, who began to dump them into the grave.

“Bye, Tinkerbell. I’m gonna miss you loads.”

“I’ll miss you too.” Her eyes got all watery.

“Is it… does it hurt? I don’t like hurty things. I told your brother to put the knife back in the box,” She gestured to the tiny wooden chest, “So it’s not hurty for me, but…” She looked at Dean, to the floor, then back to Sam. “Can you promise me something?”

“Sure.”

“Put it back in the attic when I’ve gone, please? It meant so much to Peter to have it there, and I don’t wanna disappoint him.”

“Of course we’ll do that.”

“Thank you…” She swallowed and gazed up at the sky. The trees were black against the fading dusk, and a few stars were just about visible. “It is gonna hurt, I know it’s gonna.”

“Well, if you don’t want it to hurt, I can let you in on a little secret.” Sam dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “We don’t need to send you to Neverland. You can go on your own.”

“I can? But I don’t know the way.”

“Everyone knows the way. See up there?” He pointed. “Second star to the right, and straight on ‘till morning.” Rachel giggled. “It’s just like in the stories. Think happy thoughts and you can find the way.”

“I’ll try. But if… Oh!” She turned and looked behind her. Sam couldn’t see anyone there, but Rachel stretched out a hand to nothingness. “There’s someone here. He says he’s going to help. Are you… are you Peter Pan? The real one this time?”

A silence. Dean took out his lighter but waited. Then Rachel nodded.

“Okay. Let’s go, then.” There was no explosion of light or burning coals. Her body simply… dispersed.

“…Stupid reapers. Always stealing our hunts.” Nevertheless, the tone of Dean’s voice made it quite clear he was relieved as he dropped the lighter in the grave and watched the flames burn bright yellow.

 

 

  
* * *

Jeremy and Susan were waiting for them inside, at the kitchen table with the light on. With the night, all the heat from the ground was beginning to fade.

“Did you do it?”

“Yeah. They’re both resting in peace now.” Sam passed over the box that held the knife. It was quite heavy. “Please put this up in the attic. We’ve talked this through and think it would be best if it stayed here.”

Surprisingly, Dean didn’t object.

“Alright.”

“And if you get ghost trouble again, or anything else you think might be a monster, call Bobby’s number. But we have to head off now.”

“Goodbye, then.”

They took their leave, Dean gathering up the spades and fuel cans and storing them in the back of the Impala.The road ahead of them was clear as Evergreen House faded off into the distance behind.

“Why didn’t you kick up a fuss about the knife? I was expecting you to.” Two hands on the wheel, Dean could only shrug.

“You had that look on you. The one that says you’re not backing down short of being dragged away by force. So I wasn’t going to win.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Back in the house, Susan Tallis ascended the ladder through the to the attic, box in hand and shoes crunching on rock salt, and gently set it back on top of Peter’s letter. Then, with a few creaks, she descended again and hoisted the ladder back up before closing the trapdoor. She turned around to the second room on the right and saw the crayola drawing Rachel had done - two children, a boy and a girl, with a house and two stars in the sky. Only then did she start crying.

Up in the attic, the box sat silently. Inside it… were three rocks from the garden. The knife was nowhere to be seen.


	9. Chapter 9

They holed up for the night in a shabby motel and slept like logs. Come morning, Dean’s phone had another message. From Bobby. He checked it over as they got dressed.

“Is it another case?”

“Something’s been chewing people up, they’re not sure what it is yet. In Oregon.”

“Oregon?!” Sam flopped back on his pillow in frustration. “That’s half the country away! Aren’t there hunters in Portland that can take care of it? I know there are about a thousand and one psychics, so there should be at least a couple who can handle a shotgun.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’ll phone him up and ask why he needs us. We’d have to divert north through Montana on the way there because I’m not letting us stumble back into the Devil’s Gate firefight. Anything you want me to say to him for you?”

“No, but I could use some fresh air. I’m heading out for a walk. I spotted a nice park driving in, and the trees should be pretty at this time of year. Do you want to come with?”

“Is that a rhetorical question, or what? No way. You go take your girly flower walk, and I’ll handle the manly hunter business.”

“Juuust checking. Oh, and if I’m not back in two hours tops,” He paused on the threshold, “…I might be dead. I’ll try to leave my body somewhere obvious, so don’t worry!”

“Yeah, whatever, drama queen.”

Dean was texting when Sam closed the door to their motel room and, taking a deep, steadying breath, went downstairs to exit the building.

 

 

 

  
* * *

He hadn’t been lying - it had looked like a nice park, and in daylight it still had an aura of calm about it. There was a bubbling water feature feeding a goldfish pond, and the leaves were all manner of yellows and reds and browns in a carpet that crunched satisfyingly under his feet. Best of all, the traffic noise somehow seemed muted by the canopy above.

He sat down on a little wooden bench by the pond. There was nobody else around.

“I know you’re out there.” No answer.

“Come on, don’t pretend I don’t know. You can hear me. Why don’t you respond?” Still, no answer.

Sam let out a huff of air and shifted around so he was lying sideways on the bench, head resting slightly uncomfortably on one handrest and legs dangling over the other - really, he was too tall to be doing this anymore. One hand reaching towards the sky, he idly traced the outline of the branches with his index finger.

“I’m waiting, you know. Anytime you like.” No answer.

So he stayed like that for a while, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, letting the weirdest of thoughts cross his mind and float away, like dreams in a foggy bay. That was a really rubbish simile. Metaphors were better anyways. He smiled.

“You can tell what I’m thinking, can’t you? I hope that made you laugh. Angels need to lighten up sometimes.” He rolled off the bench to land in a half-crouch on the leafy floor and stood up, brushing the dirt and a woodlouse off his hands. “Come  _on_. Now’s as good a time as any unless you’re planning on keeping me ignorant my whole life, in which case fuck you.”

_“I wasn’t planning that.”_

“There we go.” Sam grinned, then frowned. “Why are you using my voice?” It wasn’t even the weirdly distorted voice that you hear on recordings of you that makes you want to cringe into the floor. It was the voice you hear when you yourself speak.

_“It’s my voice too, you know.”_

“And here we are. Straight to the root of the problem.” He had accidentally made a tree analogy while he was standing in a park full of them. Funny how you notice these things when you pay absolute attention to what you’re saying. Oh well. “You. Camping out in my body. See, I’m afraid I have some major issues with the whole thing.”

_“I know. It’s why I’ve been hiding.”_

“I guessed. Now, chief among these issues is the fact that you could, at any time, take over my body without warning and cause destructive havoc that would be attributed to me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the blackouts. It took me a while, and I’m still not sure how many there were, but I know it was at least three. So I don’t trust you.”

_“If it helps, you trusted me enough to consent to this.”_

“At the time I would have gladly torched half the planet if it meant saving my brother. So forgive me if I still have doubts. Aren’t contracts forged under duress supposed to be voidable?”

The mysterious voice in his head didn’t even deign that one with an answer. After all, they’d gone over this with Pierre and, way back before that, with Dean’s crossroads deal. No backing out where the supernatural was concerned.

“Your name. It’s Ezekiel, right? The one they assigned Castiel to track down and kill. The one who defied orders to raise me; the traitor in Heaven’s ranks.”

 _“I have been called a traitor to many, but not to you. Never to you, Sam.”_  That wasn’t quite a confirmation, but it wasn’t a denial either.

“Touching. Now shoo.” He made flapping gestures to emphasise. If anyone had seen him, they’d think him mad. They’d be right, he supposed. “I don’t care how snuggly buggly or whatever it is in here, I want you out. So buzz off and we’ll never see each other again. I’ll even do you a favour and not mention to the other angels that you were here.”

_“I’d really rather stay.”_

“Yeah, I was afraid of that.” He sat back down on the bench with a thunk. The air around him now raised goosebumps on his skin. The day wasn’t yet in full swing, and it was late enough in autumn for a coat to be needed outside. He hadn’t taken one. “Which leads me to plan B.”

_“You won’t be able to do it, though.”_

“You can read my mind?” Sam’s hand clutched the bench tightly; so tightly, in fact, that a splinter broke off and lodged itself in his palm. He didn’t bother to remove it. “Of course you can. My fucking luck. What makes you think I won’t?”

_“You don’t have the strength to betray your brother like that. Not after what he sacrificed for you the last time.”_

“…Of course I do. I can!” Even to him, his voice was weak and trembling. “I can. And I will.”

_“I’m not stopping you.”_

“Yeah, why aren’t you stopping me, by the way? Why am I not being mind-wiped - oh, and that’s not permission, before you even ask.”

_“I think… it would be best. For you to see that whatever you decide, you aren’t prepared to give up enough to be rid of me. I am not evil, Sam. In time you will learn that.”_

“Zeke? Not to be judgemental or anything, but you’re bluffing. When the time comes you’ll run scared. I  _am_  stronger than you, so this is me. Calling your bluff.”

_“Go ahead. Like I said, I’m not stopping you.”_

 

 

 

  
* * *

There was a knock on the door. Dean looked up, hastily stowing the shotgun he was cleaning (darn things rusted up if you weren't careful - must be all the salt) out of sight under the bed.

“Who is it?”

Sam stuck his head into the room and scanned it, quite clearly looking for something. “Just me. Dean, where’s the Colt?”

“The- wait, is there something out there?” He was up and off the bed in less than a second, reaching down to pick up the gun he’d been cleaning and click it back into a workable state. There were only salt bullets there, but they’d work fine on demons-

“No, nothing’s out there. I just wanted to know where you’d stowed the Colt, that’s all. I had a look round the car but it’s not visible through the windows. Is it in the boot?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get the keys then?”

“…No. No poking around in the back of my baby.”

“Dean, are you hiding something?” Dean’s poker face didn’t change one bit. It was a dead giveaway. “You’ve put something in the back of the boot you don’t want me to see.”

“I have no clue what you mean. I’m just trying to make sure we don’t waste those bullets, Sam. So you tell me one good reason you need the Colt right now, and sure I’ll get it out and show it to you. One reason, Sammy. Go on.”

“I…” He couldn’t say it. Not like this. “No reason. Just for peace of mind, that’s all.”

But Dean had picked up on the hesitation, the barest hint of uncertainty, and his mood flicked from defensive straight to offensive. It was scary how well they knew each other, to pick up on cues like this.

“Are you getting freaky future sight again? Demonic powers manifesting?”

“Trust me, it’s  _anything_  but demonic. What’s the least painful way to break a bone?”

The question hit Dean out of left field, and it showed clearly on his face. It took maybe five seconds before it clicked. “You want to talk to Castiel.”

“It’s that, or give me the Colt so I won’t need his help with this.”

Dean sighed an exasperated sigh and reached across to the nightstand where his phone was. He picked it up, dialed speed dial, and waited not that patiently while the quiet sounds of ringing rang tinnily out of the tiny cell.

“Bobby? It’s me. Look, the thing in Oregon? We’re cancelling. We’re not gonna make it in time to be any use, so phone up someone else.” Sam couldn’t quite make out the reply, but from Dean’s grimace it probably wasn’t the nicest. “Yeah, I  _know_. Thirteen in two days is a helluva body count, but at the moment there’s more important stuff to do. No, it’s not the Gate,” More mutterings over the phone, “But something’s up with Sam. Yes, he’s here with me. He’s in the room right now, probably wondering why I’m phoning you.” Dean gave a wink. “No. Haven’t a clue, but I’m going to find out. Alright. Fine. Bye.” He clicked ‘end call’ and let the cell drop onto the comforter.

“Thirteen people? You dropped a case with thirteen people already dead?”

“Thirteen  _bodies_. They still haven’t found the other fifty-three missing people. And heck yeah I’m dropping it like a hot potato, because something is wrong with you. So don’t pretend I don’t care. Tell me what’s up.”

“The sky.”

“Tell me, Sammy!”

“ _No._  Either give me the keys to I can get the Colt or tell me the best way to snap a rib.”

“What makes you think I know how to snap my own rib? You think John taught me that sort of thing?”

“Nah, but I know you did it all the time in Hell. Must have picked up a few tricks.” Dean flinched back as if visibly stung. “What? Just tell me how and I’ll stop asking.”

“No way. You need a rib broken? I’ll freaking break my own. Castiel looked like he was paying me more attention anyway, so I’ll call him on one condition: you have your talk right where I can see it, and afterwards you tell me the whole, gory truth as to this mess you’ve got yourself into.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can take care of this myself- Dean?” He’d begun to disassemble the shotgun, pulling the barrel off and looking at the double metal tube with something approaching weary resignation. “Dean, if you’re doing what I think you’re-”

A thud. And a crack.

“Owww… Hah. Not the least painful but let’s get this over with, hah, quickly.” Dean clutched one hand to his now injured chest and laid his head back on the headboard, closing his eyes. “Hear my prayer, oh Heavenly Host of douchebags. I require the assistance of the angel Castiel, so if he could teleport down here that would be just peachy.”

There was the sound of shifting air and a heavy stillness settled over the room. Castiel stood by the window, the morning sun forming a silhouette at his back.

“There are no demons or malignant supernatural beings present in a wide radius of this place. Why have you called me?” His voice was the carefully measured gravel it had been that one time before, but somehow annoyance managed to leak through.

“Don’t look at me. Sam’s the one that wanted the talk.” Castiel stalked - because he didn’t walk properly, he moved the entire time in a wary stride of a warrior on high alert - towards Dean, and with one tap on the shoulder and a sharp inhale the fractured bone mended itself. “…Great. Now I have to thank an angel.”

“It is my duty to care for you. You do not need to thank me.” Castiel turned to lock eyes with Sam. Even all the way across the room, that gaze was intense enough to feel like his very being was being scrutinised under a microscope. “There is a wall around your mind, Sam Winchester, to match the wall around your soul. What dark art have you invoked that your intentions remain hidden from us?”

“Dark art?!” Dean choked, but one glare from Sam shut him up.

“It wasn’t me. I swear, Dean, it wasn’t me. Hear this out. Castiel, you’re hunting Ezekiel, right?”

“I and many others. He has rebelled against Heaven and is a traitor to our kind.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Sam paused for a bit. “What are your orders if you manage to track him down?”

“We must attempt execution immediately.” Simple, blunt, and the look in his eyes was terrifying.

“Well, I know where he is. He’s right,” Sam tapped his head, “Here.”

“You are Ezekiel?”

“No, but he’s lying low in my brain. That’s why you can’t read my mind. That’s why I can’t remember things I should have done. I’ve got an angel riding shotgun.” He laughed without humour. “And now I want him out. So get him out.”

“Sammy. Sam, you have to listen to me. If Cas does this, it’ll kill you. Angels kill their vessels if they die. It’s not like demons - there’s no exception to the rule.”

“I don’t care, Dean.”

“Well, I do! There is no way in hell I’m going to let you die again. You hear that?”

“You don’t understand. He’s  _in my head_. There’s nothing I can do to fix this. My body’s not my own anymore, and I refuse to be… enslaved to this thing. I’m not becoming a vessel. Anything but that.”

“No.”

“Dean, he’s talking to me. Right now! He’s stolen my voice and he’s using it to tell me how brave I’m being, how proud he is, and I’m scared. I thought it would… I thought telling Castiel would send him packing but it hasn’t, and the only way to get him out is to kill him. He says he’s never going to leave, so the only way is to kill me.”

A thin silver blade had dropped down from the coat into Castiel’s hand. He advanced, moving with deadly purpose towards a Sam that was breathing twice normal speed, adrenaline pumping his body into crisis mode.

“Cas! Zeke pulled us from Hell, so why are you even hunting him? He’s on our side, right? Your orders are bogus!”

Castiel didn’t even look around, still fixating on Sam and watching for the slightest sign of an angel fleeing. There was none. “Even if I do not yet understand why, I know my orders are just and true. I am an angel of the Lord. I have  _faith_  in my superiors.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that. Aren’t you guarding me? Don’t you have to listen to what I say? I’m telling you; I’m begging you, stand the fuck down! Don’t kill my brother!” Dean locked eyes with Sam. They were wide and afraid.

“You are my charge, Dean Winchester. You are  _not_  my commander. Your orders mean  _nothing_  to me.” And with those words and one last step forward, Castiel plunged the blade into Sam’s chest.

Sam gasped.

Castiel twisted the knife and he screamed.

The very air lit up with a flare of whitish blue, so bright that Dean was forced to shield his eyes with a hand and he saw the darkened image of the bones inside the skin. Sam’s scream became a bloodcurdling wail, and then shot up in pitch to a ringing screech that shattered first the lightbulb in a shower of sparks, then the window, and then Dean felt blood trickle out of his eardrums as his hearing gave out and all sounds went quiet.

When he could look again, Sam and Castiel had both vanished, and Dean was alone in the empty silence of the room.

 

 

 

  
* * *

They were in a field. The location was unimportant - when you can move thousands of miles in the beat of a wing, it does not matter where you presently are, only what is there. Here, there were grasses and flowers but no animals apart from the ever-present shifting earthworms beneath the ground; the two rabbits had fled at the crackling sound of their arrival and humans did not venture this far into the wilderness.

He reached down and pulled the knife out of his belly, inspecting it with an air of detachment before handing it, handle first, back to Castiel. All traces of blood had vanished from the blade.

“This is, I believe, yours.”

Castiel took back his weapon and stared at it, incredulous and not understanding what had just happened. “There are… there are five things that Heaven’s arsenal cannot kill. You… I have twice seen the Amulet of Jehovah in your presence now. Both times it was cold, so that leaves… four.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” The thing in Sam’s body seemed disinterested in the proceedings. “Go on. Work it out. Which one am I?”

“Michael, Raphael, Gabriel… Lucifer.” There was a pause before the last name, as if another name had been on the tip of Castiel’s tongue. “The bloodline of Raphael is heavily guarded, and it had been made sure that none of the prophets would come into contact with the Winchesters for many decades. So Sam cannot host Raphael.”

“Good, good.”

“Michael’s bloodline runs through the Winchester family, and though Dean would be his ideal choice, Sam’s blood, even though tainted, can still host his Grace. A deal, made with Sam, to raise his true vessel from Hell. Our commander, Michael… are you him? No. You can’t be. Michael is directing his forces in Heaven, and it would be known if he had left.”

“You have a lot of faith in your superiors, Castiel, if you assume they would tell  _you_ that Michael had skipped out on them.”

“You are one of two.”

He folded his arms and waited. Castiel was hesitating, as if he wasn’t even allowed to speak the name aloud.

“Lucifer… Sam is Lucifer’s true vessel. But Lucifer is in the Cage, and the seals have not been broken. It can’t… it can’t be.”

“Anything’s possible in the right circumstances, Castiel.”

“No!” Castiel took a step back. “That’s not how it’s supposed to go. Heaven’s plan is our future course of action. Lucifer is not free. You’re attempting to deceive me.  _I will not be deceived,_  Gabriel.”

“Well done.” A slow clap. “Such brilliant powers of deduction, Castiel. I hadn’t known my little brothers were so adept at human reasoning. Oh, be careful, or the Host might start hunting you too.”

Gabriel, the archangel that all the humans knew, but the one that was most forgotten among the angels. Who had left heaven to walk the earth and been lost to all sight for two thousand years. Gabriel, who could take any human in Creation for his vessel - and had used this to successfully evade all detection. Until now.

“Gabriel the deceiver. The angel of judgement. Why… why now? Why reveal yourself?”

“Ah, my reasons are my own. And don’t,” he held up a finger to silence the other angel’s question, “Tell anyone about this. As far as Dean is concerned, Ezekiel has left. To the Host, he was never here.”

“I refuse to lie to my brothers.”

“You don’t have much choice, do you Castiel?” He smiled, irises flashing bright blue. “I may have been away for two thousand years, but I am still an archangel. I hold rank above you. An angel cannot defy the orders of their superiors, not without breaking rank and losing all connection to the Host. Are you willing to fall because you don’t like a bit of lying?”

Shock and panic flitted across Castiel’s face and he took a step back, shaking visibly.

“N-no… No, I am a faithful angel. I will not disobey.” He sank to one knee and bowed his head. “Your wish is my command. My purpose is to serve those greater than me.”

Sam’s face twisted into the tiniest hint of a frown, like the thing occupying the body was disappointed at the outcome. From this angle it was impossible to see Castiel’s face, but the steady drip of tears onto the grass left no doubt that the body was crying.

“You’re quite in tune with your vessel, little brother.” Castiel looked up in fear, eyes puffy and red but refusing to vocalise his distress. “You’ve been listening to him, haven’t you?”

“The Host forbids conversation between us.” The voice was carefully measured, not a hint of emotion leaking through.

“Doesn’t stop it happening sometimes. You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours. In fact… this is another direct order, from an archangel. I’m lifting the restriction. Talk to James Novak all you like. See if he can’t knock some free will into you.”

“I don’t want-”

“Of  _course_  you don’t want free will. Why would an  _angel_  want free will?” He rolled Sam’s eyes. “Take it anyway. Or don’t, it’s up to you - and that’s the point, isn’t it? If you must, think of this as a test. And be aware that the right answer might not always be obvious.”

“I will not fall into temptation.”

“That remains to be seen, Castiel.” With a shift of air and a smile he disappeared, and Castiel was left on his own in the field.

 

 

 

  
* * *

“Dean.”

“Sam?” His little brother was standing in the doorway, looking around with a curious expression on his face. Dean got up and warily approached. “What the hell happened back there? I saw Cas stab you!”

“Can I… can I sit down first? I’m not feeling that well.” Sam half-stumbled across the room, making a beeline for the bed that wasn’t underneath the shattered lightbulb and therefore less likely to be covered in glass shards. He staggered and Dean caught him in a hug. Sam’s skin was cold, running a couple of degrees lower than it should be. “Thank you.”

“What happened, man? I thought you were dead for sure.”

“Me too. I was sure I was a goner. I think the blade malfunctioned. It must have been rusty or something.” That wasn’t how Ruby’s knife had worked but hey, Dean had no experience with angel blades. It sounded plausible enough. “It didn’t kill Zeke. Lit him up like a firework, sure, but I think he managed to escape. Castiel zapped me back here and took off in pursuit.”

“Yeah, good for him, ‘cause if I see that damn mosquito anywhere near here again I’m going to shoot him. With the Colt. He tried to kill you, Sammy.”

“It wasn’t his fault. The angels can’t be faulted for anything they do. They don’t have the capacity to choose; they have to follow orders, or they fall.” Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re defending him. What is this, some creepy Stockholm Syndrome? Do I need to sent you off to Pierre to do anti-angel rehab?”

“No.” Sam shifted and reached down to pick up a piece of glass. It had sharp edges, but they didn’t seem to be cutting his little brother’s skin. “Are you alright, Dean?”

“Me? Just peachy. I have sunburn all over my arm,” He held up the offending forearm to demonstrate, “And I can only hear in one ear. Which is an improvement on five minutes ago, so I’m hoping I’ll get the rest of my hearing back soon.”

“I’m sure you will recover. For now, I think it would be best if I went outside again for-”

“What’s wrong with your eyes?”

“What do you mean?” Sam traced the skin around them with a finger.

“They’re glowing. Well, scratch that, but there is no way that’s your normal eye colour. The irises are, like, three shades lighter than they should be.”

“Oh.” Sam blinked. “Castiel reconstructed them. When I saw Ezekiel leave, I beheld his true form for a moment. My eyes melted in their sockets. The colour change is probably a temporary result of that. It should fade.” He blinked again, and when he opened his eyes the glow had lessened just a tiny bit. “Did that do anything? I’m trying to turn it off.”

“Eh, maybe. Sammy?”

“Yes?”

“Just wanted you to know that if you even start considering suicide again, I’ll find some dark ritual to voodoo us together so I’ll die if you do.” Sam smiled.

“I’ll make sure it isn’t on the agenda, then. But I’d like to get some fresh air, Dean. Clear my head. Are you alright dealing with… this?” He indicated the scattered glass shards on the floor.

“Yeah. Motel staff came along while you were getting your eyes crispy-fried. Apologised, said it must have been a resonance loop or some other bullshit like that. Might be able to scam him out of ‘medical costs’.” Sam had already left, not bothering with saying goodbye. “Oh yeah, sure, way to treat your brother.”

 

 

 

  
* * *

It had been an hour, at most, since they had last been in the little garden round the back of the motel. It felt like it had been at least a day. So much had changed, even if, to the outside observer, nearly everything had stayed the same.

“Do you want control while we talk, or should I keep things the way they are?”

_“Give me back my body, you sick bastard.”_

“As you wish.” There was a flashing pain behind his eyes and Sam cringed, clutching the mossy armrest of the bench for support as spots burst in his vision.  _“I haven’t yet dealt with the effects of the blade. I was merely numbing them but I am less able to do that when I’m not in control.”_

“Well, fuck you. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from you.”

_“You’d pass out. From the agony. I don’t think that’s wise.”_

“Shut up. Shut the fuck- ah!” He clutched his head. The pain was intensifying into a white-hot needle of agony. “Stop it!”

 _“Accept my help.”_  The words shot spikes through his brain.  _“But since you’ve already consented, I guess I’ll let this one slide.”_

It dulled back to an ache. Sam was still holding his temples, not trusting himself to move or it would flare again.

“I hate you. I hate you so much I will find some way to cast you out into another vessel and then I will strap you to the ceiling and  _burn_ you.”

_“Just you, me, and the firelight. How romantic.”_

“Don’t make fun of me!”

_“But Sammy, fire can’t kill me. Not even holy fire. Your death threats are useless and to be honest, rather adorable.”_

Sam yelled in frustration, startling a few pigeons who had hopped nearer looking for a feeder, and kicked the bench. He half expected the rotten wood to crack under the force - wouldn’t that just be his luck - but no, it held up fine.

“What do you even want from me? Is my body not enough? You have to pretend friendliness so you can make yourself feel better about this? You have to take my voice?”

_“Do you know who I am, Sam?”_

“Yeah. Gabriel. I was mute, not freaking deaf.”

Soft laughter inside his head. His own laughter; his own voice.  _“Of course not. I lied to Castiel. I lie and deceive and tempt and test; it’s my job, if you’ll excuse the pun.”_  There was meant to be a pun in there?  _“You’re the exception, of course. I will never lie to you. It would be lying to myself, and I value lucidity.”_

“Who are you, then?”

_“The angel Samael.”_

“Never heard of him.”

 _“After Heaven cast me out, references to my name were changed in many religious texts, and the fire in the Temple destroyed most of the rest. You may better know me as Lucifer.”_  

Sam felt his mouth go dry.

“Oh god. What have I done?”

_“You freed me. And I freed your brother. I’d say it was a fair enough trade.”_

“No. No. Go back!”

 _“Too late for that. Thanks to you, I walk the earth, Sam.”_  He dug a splinter out of the wood of the bench and stabbed it with his hand, feeling the flash of pain and watching the blood well up around it. Blocking the sound of the devil on his shoulder.  _“And I’d rather prefer it if you didn’t do that.”_

“Why do I care? You’re Lucifer. You’re the devil. If I have to poke my own eyeballs out to get rid of you, that’s what I’ll do.” He gritted his teeth and twisted the splinter, welcoming the fresh wave of painful heat that chased away the cold of the devil’s presence over him.

 _“We can have this conversation later.”_  And then suddenly Sam could not move his limbs, could only watch as Lucifer pulled out the splinter and consumed it in flames with a flick of his fingers. The fire burned cold. “There are more urgent matters that need to be addressed.”

 _“What, like the fact I’ve got the devil in my head? ‘Cause that’s urgent and hey, I know exactly how to solve it!”_  How he still had the presence of mind to muster up sarcasm, Sam didn’t know. He was terrified, fully aware that one misstep, one step over the line, and Lucifer could decide it wasn’t worth keeping a rebellious vessel around.  _“Get out.”_

“I don’t mind. About the rebellion thing.” He shrugged Sam’s shoulders. “Like I said before, you’re me. So resistance is expected. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

_“I am not you, you sick freak. You’ve stolen my body; that doesn’t give you the right to steal my identity!”_

“I never stole anything, Sam. You consented; and it was mine to take in the first place.”

_“It wasn’t!”_

“Really? Then tell me if you recognise the story. A little brother who has hopes and dreams beyond what’s expected of him, who doesn’t want to follow his father’s orders, who rebels. And for that he’s cast out the family, leaving his poor older brother distraught but still faithful. As it was in Heaven, so shall it be on Earth. We’re the exact same, you and I. We even have the same name.”

_“We do not! My name is Samuel!”_

“But nobody ever called you that.” Lucifer shifted around on the bench - someone would be approaching soon. They had to get this conversation over with before they were interrupted. “It’s the name on your birth certificate, but not  _your_  name. You’ve always been Sam. Of course no-one wants to name their son after an evil angel, so it was the closest your cultural background could allow you. That’s why Samuel never felt quite right, did it? It was a misspelling.”

_“No. You’re lying. You have to be. There’s no way…”_

“I  _don’t_  lie to you, Sam. And Dean is on his way. Can I trust you to keep quiet about us?”

 _“Yeah.”_  No, of course not.

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Sam looked behind him to see his brother approaching; the sound of leaves crunching had been in his ears for nearly a minute but he hadn’t paid attention to much else besides their talk.  _“I’ll be listening, and I’m ready to step in when you make a move.”_

“Not if?” He murmured under his breath.

_“You’re me; I know you far too well.”_

“Sammy? You done with your flower-smelling? I called Bobby and Oregon’s back on. We need to hit the road, ‘cause the body count’s up to twenty-four. Another eleven corpses turned up in a dumpster this morning.”

“What does it look like it is?”

“Don’t fucking know. But It’s going to take a day at least to get anywhere near, so we need to hit the road now if we want a chance at saving anyone.”

“Sounds a bit like the one in… Dean I’ve got-” His jaw locked up. Damn it! “A bad feeling about this.”

_“Fuck you. I hate you.”_

“You get a vision?”

“Just a bad feeling. And then there’s the total number of people that got taken. What’s thirteen plus fifty-three?”

“…Sixty six. Devil’s number. Damnit, I’ll phone up and get the guys already there to do a sulfur test if they haven’t done it yet.” Dean rolled his eyes. “The way they sounded, I’d be surprised if they even knew salt hurts the bad guys. Typical rookies; this is way out of their league.”

 _“If I promise not to tell him, can I have control back?”_ In answer, his head throbbed and the ache that came with awareness started up all over again. “Oh great. Well, let’s smack the tarmac. Ow, my head.”

“Headache?”

“You try melting your eyes out. Half my optic nerve was mush.”

 _“Joining in with the deception already? I’m proud.”_   Sam flinched, but Dean didn’t notice. He was already leaving, so Sam got up and followed him to the car.


	10. Chapter 10

They drove and drove and drove some more, and driving was boring when there was nothing to do but stare aimlessly out the window and count the road signs as they passed, all the while ignoring the demon whispering in your ear that  _“This would all go so much faster, Sam, if you humans weren’t so much like snails to the rest of us.”_  There wasn’t even anything good on the radio, and Dean had turned the thing off in disgust an hour in when Celine Dion had sprung out of nowhere and tormented them with a wobbling chorus of either shut-the-fuck-up-you’re-making-my-headache-worse or you’re-making-me-glad-I’m-deaf-in-one-ear, depending on who you were.

They had wholeheartedly agreed that, while Wyoming was on the quickest route, going anywhere near there wasn’t the best option at the moment (last they’d heard the news was reporting the release of a chemical weapon stockpile into the air, the only thing that would seem to explain the cross between hallucinations, blackouts and third-degree burns cropping up over people’s faces and bodies). Faced with the option of diverting north or south they’d picked the route that allowed them to briefly call in on Bobby, and had spent about ten minutes chatting before he’d wished them good luck and a quick journey, telling them he’d been monitoring the situation over in the other state.

Turns out, yes, there was sulfur present. No cattle deaths, not electrical storms, but demons were sneaking around doing something pretty catastrophic if it involved this many missing people.

The urge to ask Lucifer about what could possibly be going on was growing by the minute, but Sam resolved to himself he wasn’t going to stoop anywhere near that low.

_“I’ll show you later. I have tasks to complete.”_

Stupid mind readers.

 

 

  
* * *

So a good fourteen hours in, about halfway there with the way Dean had been massacring the speed limit, they flopped out in a motel in Montana just after the sun had set.

“You want a single between you? We only have singles available. Um, this hotel’s policy doesn’t discriminate against customers on any basis, so we’d be happy to provide-” Dean stopped the desk clerk with one hand held up and a weary expression on his face.

“He’s my brother, okay? None of that stuff right now, I’m tired. Do you have two singles somewhere near each other?”

Turns out, there were two right across the hall from one another. Dean took one look at the number plates and called dibs on 451, which was some pop culture reference Sam recognised faintly, but couldn’t be bothered to dredge out of his lethargic mind.

“The buffet looked nice. You coming?” Truth be told Sam didn’t feel like eating anything at the moment. His stomach had been jumpy all day, which was far too close to the symptoms of the  _thing_  he wasn’t ever talking about again, and the pounding in his head was slowly but surely creeping up on him with each heartbeat.

“Nah. I’m going to turn in early.”

“Suit yourself, El salado.” Dean checked his knife was still securely strapped to his leg and headed off down the stairs - they didn’t use the elevator on principle since one day it would be far too easy for some vengeful spirit to literally get the drop on them.

Sam didn’t bother to change, having left all his spare clothes in the car, and instead lay spread-eagled over the covers with the light off, trying to make sense of the whirly ceiling design as a way to make his mind shut up and his head stop screaming pain at him.

“You’re the one causing my brain feeling like it’s about to explode, aren’t you? I really don’t appreciate it.”

 _“I’m doing the best I can with limited resources. In fact, I was planning on fixing that now.”_  He rolled off the bed, springing through a handstand into a crouch with agility no human short of an Olympic gymnast could muster. “Sitting still for so long isn’t very good for us, you know. I have no idea why you humans enjoy driving so much; it’s a sedentary, solitary activity with a number of risk factors that requires constant concentration for little reward and it takes far too long to actually get anywhere.”

_“I didn’t give you permission to switch in.”_

“No, I took it. Let’s go.”

 

 

  
* * *

_“Wha- woah!”_  The world spun dangerously around them, which was even worse since Sam had no control over his body and couldn’t throw arms up to steady his balance. When it settled, the room was - oh, the room wasn’t there. And they were outside. And the sun hadn’t set yet.  _“Where the fuck did you take us?”_

“Eugene. Oregon.” They hadn’t travelled back in time, thank heck. But they had skipped timezones, explaining the fading evening light with the stars not yet out. “Like I said, there are tasks I have to complete.”

They were standing in the middle of a road, but thankfully it was a pretty quiet road, one of those glorified driveways that wound through housing estates and had traffic only during rush hours. Nobody was around, which was also a plus since that meant fewer people going to hospital because they thought they’d just seen someone appear out of thin air.

Sam wondered if his entrance had been like Castiel’s, or if hosting the devil gave you a cool teleportation effect.

_“What kind of tasks?”_

“Recharging. I’m low on power. Holy fire has the power to set an angel’s Grace alight, as do weapons forged from it. Heaven’s armory can kill an angel and severely weaken even an archangel such as myself, so I’m seeking a power source to regain strength.”

_“So you zapped us two states over. Can’t be that low on power.”_

“Teleportation requires almost no effort. If you teleport to a lower altitude you can even gain energy, although it still requires an activation threshold.” Lucifer moved stridently, but his feet weren’t making any sound on the tarmac, and Sam wasn’t completely sure (he couldn’t exactly turn his head to look) but out of the corner of his eye what should have been a long, stretching shadow simply… wasn’t there. “The sunlight is refracting around us to give the illusion of invisibility. Manipulation of light was always a specialty of mine. I  _designed_  the electromagnetic spectrum, so this is nothing.”

They strode on up the street, casting a few glances left and right at each house as they passed, looking for something. Probably.

677, 675, 673, 671…

Oh. Ooooh.

They stopped at 666 (of course, whatever was here probably had at least a taste for the dramatic) and honest-to-goodness rang the doorbell.

_“Who are we meeting?”_

“We’re not. Nobody is expecting us.”

 

 

  
* * *

The door was opened by a young girl in a skimpy, ragged top who scowled and bared her teeth at them.

“Stupid humans. Go away.”

“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” Even not in control, Sam could feel the icy crackle of power as with a flick of mental thought Lucifer froze her feet to the floor. “I don’t appreciate insults.”

She tugged and tugged, and the ice snapped cleanly off, causing her to slip and go tumbling to the ground. Lucifer looked down at her with an air of disdain, and she picked herself up with an angry black flash of eyes - ah, a demon then.

“Alright, alright. For Hell’s sake, things are bad enough without shooting the messenger. Ĉu vi ŝanĝos vazoj aŭ vi estas nova demono kiu faris sian propran vojon ĉi tien?”

“English, if you would. And yes I _did_  make my own way here.”

“Then how did you find out about us? Do we have a leak that needs to be plugged?” She sniffed disdainfully. “Ugh, you smell like human sweat. Did you scrub out all the sulfur just to get a better hiding spot? Eww.”

“A few of your cohort were a bit too hasty in dumping the sacrifices. Hunters are questioning the body count, and to be honest this house shines like a beacon on at least three different wavelengths. Not hard to find.”

“Hey, we’re not trying to be subtle.” She peeked out around him at the sky. “ _They_  already know where we are. Which makes it rather suspicious that you got here intact; I was sure the border they set up was impenetrable. How?”

“Oh, some of us have our ways.” Lucifer blinked, and Sam felt something hot flash around his eyeballs. Hot and red. He was pretending they were a crossroads demon - good choice, since they wouldn’t be questioned on teleportation ability. “Crowley sends his regards, though he regrets he can’t do much to help your situation, of course.” He blinked again and the heat was gone.

“Oh, you’re one of his little minion men. Well, why did he send you?”

“Oh, you know him. Always keeping up to date on gossip… rumours… power struggles…”

“Yeah, sounds like him. Sneaky bugger  _would_  send someone else rather than risk his own smoke out in this neighbourhood. Alright, come on in.” She turned and led them through the corridors of the house, Sam noting that most of the first floor had been cannibalised with holes torn in the walls to get from one room to another. Demons, it seemed, had a grudge against using doorways. He was sure he’d read some lore on that and resolved to check it out later.

A brown-eyed, curly-haired boy with a dimpled face walked up to meet them, accompanied by what must be the identical twin of the girl who had led them in here. No, wait… they were moving in exact step towards each other, and the dimpled boy followed Sam’s gaze exactly. It was a reflection, in a full-length mirror secured to the wall with gloopy black around its edges.

“You like it? It won’t help one bit, but some of the low-downs believe it will, so it keeps up morale.”

Sam reached out and touched it, then realised that he was back in control and right next to a demon. His heart and breaths sped up as his muscles tensed. _He was so vulnerable right now._

“It’s quite something.” he said. The mirror hand touching his was of a different size and shape, and he had to wonder how that was possible.

_“Light is very easy to manipulate.”_

“Why, though?” He was talking to Lucifer, but realised a second after he’d spoken that he’d said it aloud with someone watching him - of course the demon would think it was directed at her.

“Why? Because they believe it might reflect angel shots. And because telling them the truth wouldn’t serve us purpose, would it now.”

_“Because if they saw our real face, we’d be recognised, and I am trying to keep under the radar in case you haven’t noticed.”_

Agh! It was impossible to pay attention to both at the same time.

_“If you’re not up to handling it, I’ll take over.”_

“No.” Sam turned around. “I mean, no it wouldn’t serve any purpose. Where is everyone else?”

“Bundled up in the basement. You want me to show you the way in?”

“That would be great.”

She led them through the hole in the wall, chunks of plaster hanging precariously above their heads, to what looked like it could once have been a dining room. The remains of a table lay splintered in the corner and a corpse lay on top of it, blood staining the wood dark red and glistening. The rest of the floor comprised a complicated symbol painted in blue ink on a grey groundsheet laid out over the carpet.

An angel ward. He recognised them from Casper, though from the complexity of each sigil the person making this had more time and knowledge on their hands.

“What did he do?” Sam said, gesturing to the body. It had been a demon - he could smell the decaying blood.

“Picked a fight with one of the other guys. Wasn’t pretty; destroyed quite a bit of the house and busted the taps, and the last straw was when he tore the sheet.” On closer inspection, there  _was_  a large rip in it. The grey plastic either side was deformed with the strain. “Nearly broke a line and powered off the whole thing. So we all teamed up and ripped his body apart as punishment. It was so damaged he had to smoke out and go looking for another vessel - good riddance, I say. The angels will have burnt him up by now.”

Sam bent into a crouch and slowly hovered one of his hands over the symbol, not daring to touch with the disapproving glare of the demon boring into the top of his head. For being an angel ward, it didn’t do much to him. He felt nausea, yes - the same wanting to throw up feeling he’d had in Casper, but it was hardly a debilitating condition.

_“I’m an archangel. The standard wards don’t affect me as they do the lower ranks, and no demon will ever ban me from a place via a named angel ward. It would be unthinkable.”_

“You said you were showing me the basement.” Sam rose back to a standing position. “Where is it?”

“Right this way, smokebrain.” The door to the cupboard under the stairs had been casually ripped off its hinges and leaned against the wall next to the gaping doorway along with what had to be the remains of a trapdoor. Inside, there was a jagged rip in the floor and a ladder leading down into darkness. “Knock yourself out. Or rather, don’t; you’d best not appear weak on a first impression.”

And with that, the demon turned on her heel and ducked back through the destroyed wall.

Sam hesitated, unsure if he wanted to go in. From what had been said he would guess there were multiple demons down there, possibly hostile. He wished Dean was by his side, and he hadn’t realised before just how much confidence he drew from his brother being there. As it was he had no hunting partner and no weapon.

_“We won’t need one. Don’t worry, Sam. If they attack us I will smite them to ash. No need to be afraid.”_

“Easy for you to talk; you’re not the one out here facing it.”

In answer Lucifer took back control and descended the rungs.

 

 

  
* * *

The basement was large and gloomy; the only light came from the harsh glare of a big TV screen in the corner playing some sci-fi film Sam didn’t recognise. Demons were everywhere: slouching on tattered sofas pulled from the dump, spilling out onto the floor and playing games with marbles and cards. A trio were having a game of pool, though the felt of the table was scratched and scuffed to the point where it would be impossible to properly aim a shot. He’d know, since he’d hustled with Dean enough times.

None of them so much as glanced at him. Why would they? They weren’t friends with each other. The demons here stuck together out of necessity, and out of a need to avoid the terrifying fears patrolling the skies above. Sam’s body appeared to them as just another vessel, some random bloke you might meet off the street with mousey-brown eyes and scraggly hair. Neither an ally nor a threat.

A sense of total, utter boredom pervaded the air.

“Pick one.”

_“…How? Who? Why?”_

“I’ll answer once you’ve chosen. The one you feel most comfortable with, though you can pick on any basis. Gender, age, looks, whether the vessel is living or dead…”

_“Are we saving them?”_

“Maybe, if you feel up to it.”

So Sam picked out the youngest one, a girl no more than nine years of age, even though his mind screamed  _Lillith_  at him and told him to stay away. The shading of her skin pores and the way her heart pulsed told him the vessel was alive; from the speed of the heartbeat, probably under significant distress.

_“That one.”_

She was slumped, bleary-eyed, on one of the sofa cushions that had been dragged off to use as makeshift mats. Lucifer walked up and sat down next to her. The floor was cold, and she seemed to take interest, turning her head with black eyes.

“Heya. Ain’t seen you ‘round ‘fore. New vessel or ain’t we met?”

“Haven’t met.”

“Eh, like not like so. What’s up? ‘part from the ceiling. They got news on a breach yet?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Then why the Devil’s name did you risk it out there? Come on. Be a coward like the rest of us. Be fun.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s true.” She crawled off the cushion and touched one hand to Sam’s shoulder. “So what can I do for yours untruly? You seem handsome enough, and I’m having fun screwing with this kid’s little head.” The hand moved lower, stroking down his clothed chest.

Sam wished he could throw up. She was, what, eight years old? And with a wicked glint in her eyes, she was feeling him up. The worst thing was that Lucifer… wasn’t stopping it. In fact, he didn’t seem to be paying much attention at all.

_“Make her stop. Please.”_

Idly, he grasped her hand with strength no human should possess, casually slammed it into the floor, and for good measure locked her fingers together in a sheet of ice.

“No touching my vessel. He’s mine.”

“Oooh, possessive. Is he struggling?” She inspected her frozen hand and then cradled it in her lap, figuring melting it in its own time would be the best course of action. Demons weren’t bothered much by frostbite. “Live a little, you outta. I’m telling you, there’s nothing more sweet then getting it on with your poor little underage body tormented and forced to feel it. Never was much of a pedo in life, but hey! Rack crack’s a hell of a stress disorder, and I’m telling you we ain’t got more than a week before the angels storm this place and blast us all to ash.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Well then, let’s hear it!” She leaned forward on two elbows, eyes gleaming in the light of the screen, looking like a picture of angelic innocence if it weren’t for the black orbs in her sockets under the reflection.

“Not here. Let’s head to a more secluded place.” She frowned and shivered, brushing her non-icy hand over her back to check if goosebumps really were rising there.

“Light deflection spell? Well, someone’s got access to high-level runes. This one’s going to be a doozy, I can tell.” When Lucifer didn’t say anything, she shrugged. “Come on? I ain’t got all day. Hey, wait…” Her eyes narrowed as she began to see through the haze over Sam’s body. “Are you-“

 

 

  
* * *

“Not here.” Lucifer grasped her arm and the world dissolved into colours around them, reforming seconds later into a grassy plain with mountains to one side and a forest on the other.

She stumbled back, looking around in fear. The sun was still low on the horizon; the sky around it was blazing pink, and shadows crept every which way, cast by the long stalks of grass.

“Are you insane? They’ll have felt that! They’ll find us! We’re not protected here!”

“We’ve moved far enough to escape their radius of interest, I assure you. The Host is far too ethnocentric; it must be the lunacy shown by the American humans and their tedious devotion to Yahweh.”

She blinked in shock at his form, seeing right through the fading spell he had used to cloak his image.

“Samael?  _Samael?!_  Father, is that you?”

“Do you know of anyone stupid or suicidal enough to mimic me?” He folded his arms and watched her fall to both knees, hands joined together in a crude mockery of a prayer. “I’ve got a special task for you.”

“Anything. Anything.”

“…It might involve dying, depending on what my vessel wants.”

“Anything.”

“Well, there we go. Informed consent. Let nobody say I don’t respect the autonomy of my subordinates, Sam.”

_“Shut the fuck up you hypocrite.”_

“What do you require of me, Father?” The demon rose to her full height - the vessel was tiny, so it really wasn’t that high - and did her best to look him in the eye. “You have returned to us. Any task I can perform is nothing to that.”

“I need soul power. Your blood.” She nodded.

“How much?”

“As much as my vessel feels he can get by with.”

_“Which is none. No more demon blood. Ever.”_

“We’ll see. You must open a wound.”

“Of course.” She sat back down, cross-legged, and shrugged off a sleeve of the raggedy t-shirt she wore to expose the side of her neck. Lucifer sat next to her. “Artery or vein?”

“Your choice. I will heal it once my vessel feels he can stop, since he’s more in tune to the demands of this body.” One slash with a sharp, overgrown fingernail and blood was gushing in a spurt from her neck. Sam tried to get away, he really did. But Lucifer touched his lips to the stream of blood…

…And he was lost, all rational thought swept beneath a tide of fierce joy as the wet, salty heat hit his taste buds and set them ablaze. So now he knew why vampires fed from the carotid artery, why they made such a mess of their meals. Blood gushed out at him; no effort, just reward and swallowing and swallowing, even as his brain kicked into a higher gear to sharpen the focus of the world around him.

This was nothing like from a vein. That was dull, deoxygenated, lifeless. This was drinking of liquid soul, sweet and salty and sour and burning all the way down his throat, fresh with the newness of childhood.

He couldn’t get enough of it. Nothing existed but this glorious liquid.

Some of it trickled down his face or into his clothes, and he moaned in sudden flashing rage, angry that it was getting away. And the delicious flow was beginning to fade, each mouthful requiring a bit more effort until he was dragging it out with his tongue and teeth and breath.

Wicked flames curled beneath his skin and spots flashed behind his eyes, but he needed more. More, damn! There wasn’t enough. Her heart had sputtered and stopped; it was only his efforts getting it out, and it was harder with each gulp.

So he detached, breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon but feeling like he could run ten, and darted eyes left and right to look for more.

Nobody else. Just an empty field. He dropped the limp body and rose up higher, for a better viewpoint, the wind washing the smell from his nostrils.

And froze in horror as Sam felt his rationality return to him.

 _“I told you that you wouldn’t resist.”_  At some point, control had been surrendered to him but he’d been so caught up in the sensations he hadn’t even cared. He’d just gone right on drinking.

Sam tried to throw up but his stomach wouldn’t obey him; he settled with hacking up flecks of bloody mucus onto the grass before the urge to swallow again took him over. He let the pinkish red spit dribble out of his mouth as he retched, bent over on his knees on the dirty ground. Still he couldn’t be sick. It wasn’t regurgitating.

_“That’s me. I do need this for a reason, and if I let you throw up now we’ll have to get some more. I’d have hoped you’d choose a vessel with a larger volume in, to be honest, but I can work with what we have.”_

“S-she’s d-dead.”

 _“Yes.”_  The mental equivalent of a shrug.  _“I did warn her, and she agreed. Demons know the risks, since their soul is contained in the blood of their vessel.”_

“Not the demon, t-the girl! The host!”

_“So? The reapers have charge of her soul, and good riddance to it. They’ve sworn neutrality, so they won’t give us away.”_

Imaginary fire flared across his skin with the strengthening sunlight - the sun wasn’t setting, but rising into the sky. Every nerve ending was jarred and sore, set off jangling by the slightest air current as Sam slapped his hands over his ears to protect his poor ears from the sudden rush of twittering sound.

“What are you doing to me?!” He yelled to nothing in particular, flinching moments later at the echo of the sound.

 _“Total system reboot. And fixing your headache. It would probably be easier to do this without you conscious, but I did promise, and I don’t break those…”_  His muscles spasmed all at once, antagonistic pairs both contracting into painful cramps. He couldn’t help falling to the floor, hair now soaking in the pool of bloody drool on the grass. _“Don’t worry, the pain will pass. In fact, you’ll probably enjoy this next bit.”_

 _“Fuck… you…”_  He couldn’t speak with his jaw locked up tight, but apparently mental talking worked over just fine when you were - sort of - in control.

Then every single muscle in his body relaxed, and suddenly he was too far gone to care about talking.

It was like hypnosis, those times when they told you to count backwards from ten, scrunch up and release first your feet, then legs, then back then arms, working your way up. Only it was nothing like that, because back then there wasn’t a way to get rid of all the tension. Here… it was gone.

He could not move, could not crack open an eyelid, could only feel the dead weight of his body pressed into the dirt. He wasn’t breathing, and he couldn’t hear a heartbeat. For all intents and purposes, he had just died, hadn’t he?

_“Pretty much. It’ll take a few minutes before any lasting effects are apparent, and I’ll be done long before then. I needed normal functioning paused so I can integrate this properly. Listen to my voice, Sam, and hang on there.”_

His mind was in that weird sleep-state you get before waking up, so he wasn’t up to a coherent reply.

No idea how long it was. It didn’t feel too long, but his perception of time was screwed up at the moment. But reawakening came as a shock. A literal electric shock that kicked his heart back into start gear as he gulped in a huge lungful of air before engaging in a coughing fit.

“The hell?” Sam looked around. Things were different again. Colours were all… shimmery. “Did you just give me ultraviolet vision or what?”

 _“Oh, I tacked that on as an extra, giving you tetrachromacy. It’s not useful for much, although it makes you appreciate flowers more now you see what the insects see. The real changes are all behind the scenes, the largest being that I now have a pocket to store my Grace,”_  Lucifer took control with the bored ease of someone experienced doing something easy, “In case anyone else gets stabby. Or trigger-happy, since you were considering using the Colt. It won’t work.”

_“You could just be saying that.”_

“The gun’s not special at all. It’s the bullets that give it power; they were forged in holy fire and have the specialised properties of the rest of Heaven’s arsenal. Meaning no, they can’t kill me.”

_“Shame.”_

“I know, it is such a pity.” Lucifer seemed to have mastered the art of sarcasm fairly well for someone who said he’d never lie. “Let’s get you home. The body no longer needs sleep but I’d prefer it if you got some, so I can run tests and debug the bugs that are likely to come up.” He jumped to his feet in one fluid motion.

_“No!”_

“Ah, so you’re  _not_ letting me off that easily. Good; I was worried a little your emotional subroutines had been altered.  _All yours.”_  He scarpered off to the edge of Sam’s awareness while Sam crouched back down next to the little girl. No pulse. Of course there wouldn’t be.

“Turn off the UV, would you? I hate it; it’s distracting.”

 _“The ever grateful Sam Winchester.”_ The strange iridescence faded from the world, and without it he found he could pick things out far more easily. Maybe there was a reason humans hadn’t adapted it into their spectrum.

“I killed her.”

_“Yes. It was all you. I shifted control the second the blood was visible, even before you started drinking. You thought it was me making the decision, but it was you.”_

“This was meant to be the part where you reassure me I’m not a murderer, you know.”

_“I don’t lie, not even white lies. If it helps, you’re still a billion or two off my total. And death’s not a big deal when you’ve been around as long as me. You’ll realise eventually.”_

“You can’t say that! Death is the worst thing you can do to someone. However much suffering you cause… is still not as bad as killing, because killing can’t be turned back.”

_“You can raise the dead.”_

“Then raise her! Undo this!”

_“No.”_

“Why not, then? Do you refuse to regret taking an innocent life? I know you’re the devil, but I’d hoped you weren’t that evil.” The sun was rising still further into the sky, drying the beads of morning dew on the grass - they were somewhere in Eurasia or Africa, but he wasn’t up to scratch enough on geography to know any more than that approximation. “I know you can do it; you brought Dean back. Why not her? Are you a  _coward_ , afraid of disrupting fate?”

_“Some people are better off dead.”_

“I refuse to believe that. That’s a bogus rationalisation of the main problem: you’re arrogant, and you’re playing with our lives on a chessboard. That’s why you’re the bad guy, Lucifer. Because you think some people are expendable even when there’s no good reason for them to have to die.”

_“I am the accuser, the tempter, the destroyer. Those are the roles God gave to me, because nobody else could fulfil them. But I have never blindly obeyed. This world, Earth, is a balance between birth and death, creation and destruction. That is what it was created to be.”_

“So? Just because something’s meant to be someway doesn’t mean it has to be. Just because death is natural doesn’t mean it’s good, or that you shouldn’t try to fight it with everything you have.”

 _“You misunderstand me.”_  

Sam laughed. “Oh yeah? ‘Cause how I see it I understand you pretty well, you spineless little-“

 _“I was offering a deal.”_  

That shut him up.

“…What?”

_“Sam, my destiny is to play my part in the world’s destruction, but I refuse to follow my destiny. That’s why Earth is still here. I am possibly the only being who understands your point of view better than you do yourself. The natural order? It’s all a sham. Death isn’t a necessary thing to have.”_

“So you  _will_  raise her.”

 _“Her, and everyone else.”_  A shifting breeze, and Lucifer had taken back the body to stand, casting a long shadow over the field. “There’s no point applying a rule to one isolated case unless you apply it to all of them. Six billion alive currently, about ten times that dead. We could resurrect them all: halt Death in his tracks.”

_“I… you can do that?! It’s possible?”_

“You’re still underestimating me.” Lucifer wiped away the blood from his chin. “This power, the soul-energy of one demon, is  _nothing_  compared to what I can direct. It’s a dirty, inefficient, small-scale energy injection that I’m only using out of a wish to remain unnoticed. I am the best and the brightest of all the angels. I am the second oldest being in this universe, if you measure life by when your soul awakens. With you, Sam, completing me as my true vessel, I am capable of wielding energies many orders of magnitude beyond this. Very little is impossible.”

_“You’re serious.”_

“I will never lie to you. Of course, we’ll need to find a power source great enough, but one already exists. Nearly three billion people following the Abrahamic religions. Christianity, Judaism or Islam; they’re all worshipping the same god, and their prayers combine into an energy greater than any pagan god could dream of. It’s the source of power for the Host; by virtue of obeying the orders of their superiors, angels are granted access to that power in a quantity befitting their rank. If they defy, the connection is broken and they must make do with what they possess, leaving them eventually in nothingness as a human.”

_“But you could steal it.”_

“Yes, we can.”

_“How?”_

“Michael, my brother, does not know I have escaped the Cage. The source of this power lies in the Holy Land… a thousand or so miles south-east of here. It is not guarded as well as it should be; defences against everything else on Earth, yes, but nothing capable of defeating an archangel. Not with the battles in Hell ongoing and the race to fight the demons over control of the seals draining Heaven’s resources elsewhere. With the element of surprise we can fight our way into the Temple, and once we have access to the energy there, no being short of God himself can stop us.”

_“And then nobody else would have to die. Ever again.”_

“Nobody apart from Death himself. He is a formidable force, but he too is part of God’s creation, and he is younger than me. I awoke in a time where the very concept of destruction had not yet been created, let alone gained sentience. And so we could banish him from existence, the very last act of destruction that must ever be carried out. And we could raid the banks of sleeping souls Heaven guards, raising them all back to life. Every sentient creature will live.”

_“Why are you giving me this choice?”_

“Because you want to. Because destiny is a lie spun by fools. And because I can.”

 _“No, why? If you wanted this, you would have done it already. And you didn’t want to raise the girl in the first place. What’s your motive?”_  Lucifer didn’t respond, staring silently out at the ripples of waving grass. The penny dropped.  _“This is a test. You’re calling my bluff, just like I called yours with Castiel.”_

“Make no mistake, Sam. I give my word that if you choose to halt Death, then that is what we will do. I won’t have regrets. This is not coercion either way. The choice is yours to make freely.”

_“But you don’t think I’ll do it, do you?”_

“No. I’m fairly sure you won’t.”

 _“You do understand that you just put the fate of the world in the hands of a twenty-five year old, right?”_  

Lucifer smiled. “Of course I do, but I know you better than you do yourself. I trust you to make the right decision.”

_“Which is?”_

“You’ll know when you make it.” There was nothing Sam could possibly say in reply. He couldn’t be asked to make this choice. “For us, a thousand miles is a single step. We will have won the battle by the time the sun reaches noon. Afterwards… there will have to be changes. We can’t have the exponential growth of a population without age or death. We’ll have to restrict fertility so there are no more births. And by bringing so many of different cultures and times together, there will be unrest. We will have to teach a universal language just so it is possible to communicate. The demons have one on hand. We can-“

_“No.”_

“No?”

_“I said no, you hear me! No, we can’t do it. We’re not going to do it.”_

“I registered that the first time. Why, may I ask?”

 _“Because I’m the coward. I just can’t do that… not even to save everyone. It’s too far. Too much.”_  

Lucifer nodded.

“We should leave. Your brother may check in on your room soon.”

_“Well? Did I make the right choice?”_

“Sam, there  _is_  no right choice. Right and wrong is an illusory concept that some of us play by, but in reality nobody is there to decide your actions. Even God himself is flawed, so there is no universal truth. It’s something you should learn now, since we’ll be travelling together for a long time… Seventy-three.”

_“What?”_

“That’s the number of people who have died since you chose this path. Their death is a direct result of your inaction. It’s eighty-five now.”

_“I can’t… you can’t hold me responsible for-“_

“Why not? If you had decided differently, they would still be alive. The offer is still open, by the way. It will always be open so long as we are both alive and the Host are unaware of my escape.” Sam’s shocked and horrified mental silence had him sighing. “Hopefully now you may begin to understand why I  _don’t_  consider the death of one human to be all that tragic in the grand scheme of things.”

They departed with a wingbeat of shifting air, leaving behind the drained corpse of a girl that was just beginning to be noticed by the flies.

(She would be eventually found by a hunter trekking through the Transylvanian wilderness. And her discovery would spark fears that the vampires, previously thought extinct in this part of the world, had risen again.)

…They hadn’t fought. He had sustained no injuries, and they hadn’t even raised harsh voices at one another. The body was in a far better state than just a few minutes previously, thrumming with energy waiting to be expended.

So why did Sam feel the crushing weight of total, utter defeat on his chest?

 

 

  
* * *

“Hey, Sammy?” Dean poked his head around the door. “You in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, why are you still on the bed? You haven’t even changed for sleep.”

Sam’s eyes when he looked up were a dull, lifeless grey, framed by dark bags and an expression that made his face look fifty years older.

“Oh. Yeah, I probably should do that soon.”

“…You’ve got blood on your bottom lip.” For a moment Sam opened his mouth as if there was something he had to - he had to! - tell him, but then he stopped. Took a deep breath, and a little spark of life flowed back into his eyes as his face became… serene.

“I know. One of my gums is bleeding. I could tell when I brushed them.”

“Do we need to send you off to the dentist?”

“No, it should clear up without problems. I checked and none of my teeth have been knocked loose.”

“Right. That’s good news I guess.” Very little here was out of place. Sam’s bag had been unzipped but not properly unpacked, and he could see the washbag on the sink in the bathroom. The bed was still made up. “Well… night, Sammy.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

He closed the door and headed back across the hall to get ready for bed.

 

 

  
* * *

Three hours later, he was awoken to the sound of knocking. Four knocks… then a pause… then another four. Then the clicking sound of the card key being accepted by the lock.

The door swung open, leaving Dean squinting against the backlight to see the shape of the silhouette.

“Sammy?” He let go of the knife under his pillow and sat up. “Is something wrong? It’s…” He tried to check his watch, but his eyesight was all blurry and he couldn’t make out the glowing numbers. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I’ll go back.”

“No, don’t. It’s fine. I wasn’t tired.” A total lie. He’d been resting better than he had in a week.

Sam clicked the door shut, plunging the room into darkness again, so Dean shifted up to a sitting position on the bed and groped around on the nightstand for his phone. The tiny screen provided just enough light to see by without being murder on their eyes.

“What’s the matter? Did you have a nightmare?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Sam was hovering uncertainly near the edge of the bed, so Dean patted it as an invitation for him to sit down. He did. “Dean… do you ever think about how many people we let die? All those vessels we stabbed with the knife instead of using the exorcism, or the people who could have survived if we’d just been a bit quicker?”

“We didn’t kill them, Sammy. It’s not our fault.”

“But it’s the same, isn’t it? They are dead because of us. Because we were selfish and we didn’t save them.”

“What brought this on? Is it the case in Oregon? Because if we aren’t rested when we get there, we won’t be able to do much. We need to take a sleep break and I swear, I was driving as fast as I could.”

“If you could… turn back time, and save them all, would you do it? Save everyone. Would you do it, Dean? Because I wouldn’t. I’m a coward and a hypocrite and I wouldn’t, and I can’t live with myself.”

“Sammy, why the sudden philosophical drama? It’s a moot point. You’ve got to look to the future. Be optimistic!” Sam’s expression, lit only by the glow of a phone screen, told Dean all he needed to know about his little brother’s distain for optimism at this particular moment, so he dropped the false cheer from his voice. “Come here.”

Sam settled in next to the headboard on his left, knees drawn up to his chest, the blankets and sheets separating them. He still hadn’t changed out of the clothes he’d been wearing all day.

“If you’ve got something on your mind, Sammy, you can always tell me. And I’ll listen, I swear.”

“I- I can’t. I can’t tell you.” Was that a sniffle? Oh god, Sam was  _crying_. “I want to. I want to so much, you have to understand me, but I can’t. My throat doesn’t - doesn’t work when I try. And I’m trying so, so hard, Dean.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.”

“But I do. I do want to talk about it; I just can’t.”

“Then if you want to, talk about anything. I find it helps sometimes.”

“Okay.” Sam wiped his face leaving glistening trails on his arm. “Do you… do you remember Lucky?”

Dean did. Lucky was a teddy bear specially picked out by five-year-old Dean as a present for his little brother’s first birthday. His name had been Ducky at first, since Sam was having trouble pronouncing L sounds, but around two years of age he had a sudden fit of realisation and from then on had carried Lucky everywhere with him, proudly telling its name to everyone they met just to prove he could.

When Sam was nine, he had lost Lucky. After spending a frantic day looking for it one June, he had given up and been depressed the whole week of his exams, resulting in grades startlingly below what had been expected of him.

Dad hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah, I remember Lucky.”

“I found him. When I was thirteen. I spent another day looking for him and he turned up under my bed.”

“You did? But that’s-“ Impossible. They moved houses; there was no way they wouldn’t have noticed if he’d been packed away with the other stuff.

“I never told you, because I knew you’d tell Dad and he’d make us move again because something had got too close to us. And I didn’t want you to think of me as a baby who still needed my teddy bear.”

“Aww, Sammy, you know you’ll always be a baby to me, with or without Lucky.”

“Dean…” Some of the hollowness was beginning to fade from Sam’s voice. Dean took that as a good sign.

“So what happened to him then?”

“I took him with me to Stanford.”

“And? Where is he now?”

“He  _burned_ , Dean. Along with the rest of my life.”

Oh.

They sat like that for, it must have been about a minute, before Sam spoke up again.

“Do you mind if I stay here for a little bit? It’s easier to think when you’re here.”

“Whatever. You should have told me at reception you couldn’t stand being apart; that way we could have saved on money by not paying for a room we get no use out of.”

“Then maybe I should-“

“No, Sammy. You don’t have to go. I was just joking, alright?”

“I’ll go back there. I won’t be here when you wake up, I promise.”

“Good, because I’d hate to inflict my smelly morning breath on you.” Sam didn’t laugh, but the tension in the air eased a little all the same. Dean let himself slide back underneath the covers until he was lying down properly. “Goodnight. Don’t worry if you don’t get much sleep. You can doze off all day tomorrow in the back seat.” His answer to that was a hand pressing down, fingers splayed wide, over his chest. “Sammy?”

“It’s so I can check you’re not dead. When you sleep, your heartbeat goes so weak…”

“Whatever floats your boat, little bro.” Dean closed his eyes, tried to breathe evenly with the slight pressure of a hand on his thorax, and uttered a silent prayer in his head.

_“Dear Heavenly Host of mosquito whining douchebags._

_“I know none of you can actually hear this due to Zeke’s bone carving, but that’s okay, because if you were listening I’d be mortified. And if you’re God and somehow able to bypass all that, then I’m sorry but I don’t believe in you. So just let me talk to myself, okay?_

_“I’m worried about Sammy. Even more than usual. There’s something he’s not telling me, but I have no idea what it is. I saw the blood - there’s no way that was from a bleeding gum, and I’m wondering if he’s gotten himself addicted. Is that again? Time loops are weird._

_“The look in his eyes scared me, though. Like something had broken him. It’s the look of all those souls on the rack in Hell. The ones I slashed up._

_“So anyway, future me, I want to make a promise that I’ll find out what’s going on and fix it. Feel free to hold me responsible if I don’t keep the promise, which I probably won’t, because Sammy can be far too stubborn about these sorts of things and he’s great at putting on a brave face and pretending it’s all fine._

_“So, yeah. I’ve never actually prayed before. Is there a standard way to end these things? Like a letter? Eh, maybe._

_“Amen,_

_“Dean Winchester._

_“P.S. God, if you’re listening to this, could you please fix my ear? I’ve been driving half-deaf all day and it’s really starting to worry me that it’s permanently damaged."_

Sam started humming above him. It was a quiet hum, a tuneless melody: just the same five notes over and over again, with a beat of rest in between. Dean cracked open one eye to ask why Sam suddenly felt the urge to test his vocal chords, and saw two luminous rings staring back at him.

Even though the phone screen had gone dark ages ago, and the room was pitch black, those irises still glowed blue.

He was too far gone to worry about that, though; with each round of humming his brain was coaxing him to  _sleep, sleep,_  and the darkness at the edge of his mind intruded upon the darkness in his field of vision as Dean floated off to dreamland.

What none of the three of them realised, not the sleeping Dean nor Sam nor even the archangel Lucifer who had taken it upon himself to mend Dean’s shattered cochlea with a spark of Grace, was that they were observed by a fourth person. Drawn here by the mention of their name, they crouched on the floor of the empty room above and listened to the thoughts and words of those below. There was no question of them being discovered; they had far too much practice at hiding from angels to be anything but totally invisible to all who might look.

 

 

  
* * *

Dean was up at six, almost before the sun crested the horizon. He woke alone, just as Sam had promised, with a crick in his neck and a fuzzy feeling in his right ear. Maybe it was earwax. He stuck a finger in there to check, then realised that he could hear the brush of skin on skin.

His hearing had fixed itself.

There wasn’t that much to pack up, so he was done in ten minutes flat, and he decided to go wake Sam so they could get an early start on the road. Conditions and traffic allowing, they would be at their destination late afternoon. Of course, if they had any regard for speed limits they wouldn’t get there at all today, but when you had been public enemy number one and a wanted serial killer it kind of put speed tickets into context as utterly meaningless.

He paused in the hallway outside, not sure if he was actually doing the right thing. What if Sam was still asleep? From the distressed way he’d been acting last night, he needed all the rest he could get.

Then he heard his brother’s voice calling him from inside room 450.

“Dean, don’t just stand outside. I’m not that intimidating, you know.”

Oh, super-hearing. In all the commotion, Dean had kind of forgotten.

When he entered Sam was curled up on the covers, buried in a book, already dressed in the same clothes he’d been in last night, with the bed still made up.

“Dude, did you even go to sleep?”

Sam looked up nonchalantly. “Nope. I wasn’t tired. We need to return this book to the stand near reception, but apart from that I’m packed and ready to go.” There was no trace of the depression of a few hours ago in his expression. Sam’s control was once again intact. “Unless there’s anything else you need to do, we should head off as soon as possible.”

“Nah, I’m good. Let’s get out of this place. Sam, are you… do you… want to talk?” He got a raised eyebrow in return for that. “You know, about-“

“Dean, I thought you hated chick-flick moments.”

“I do!”

“Then what’s the problem?” He got up and slung the bag over one shoulder. “I sorted it, anyway. Little insomniac heart-to-hearts with… yourself are surprisingly therapeutic.” He walked up to Dean - no, he walked up to the door; it was just that Dean was currently standing in front of it.

Well, that was one more thing added to the growing folder of ‘items we shall never speak of again’. Sam was being very clear. He wasn’t better; Dean could see by the tension lines in his little brother’s neck, but neither was he bad enough to be unable to hide it. And so they trudged down the hallway and stairs, the elephant in the room getting smaller and smaller until it barely existed.

It turned out that the book return case was locked, only being open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. each day, so they left the novel on top of the glass cabinet.

“How did you get it out in the first place?”

“You probably don’t want to know.”

Dean assumed he picked the lock. It didn’t look too hard to break.

 

  
* * *

They’d paid for the room upfront, keeping in mind that they might want to leave before reception opened, so they were on the road by six-thirty and on the interstate by seven. Sam was, as promised, in the backseat rather than riding shotgun, but despite having spent the night awake he wasn’t crashing. He was fiddling with his laptop, typing something up on a Word document.

 

“It’s not important,” he replied to Dean’s query, “Just stuff I’m doing out of boredom. Because I’m bored. Deeeean, are we theeere yet?”

“Nearly. Only, you know, eight hours to go. Is this going to be one of those times where you ask me every ten minutes?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.”

Fortunately, Sam got distracted before too long: Dean’s cell rang at about half-seven and it probably best not to bend the phone use while driving and the speed limit rules at the same time, so Sam took the call instead.

“Hello? Oh, Bobby, right. Is there any news?”

“Ask him what the death count is.”

“What’s the- okay. No more deaths they know of, but- wait, what?”

“Anything I need to know urgently?”

“Nah, you concentrate on driving. If we crash at this speed we won’t need the demons to kill us.” He talked some more - Dean tuned out the conversation to concentrate on the road.

They pulled over for gas soon after that, and Sam explained the situation as the Impala’s tank filled.

“The amateurs Bobby called in, they’ve worked out a pattern to the drop sites of the bodies. And I think they tracked a trail back to its source; I don’t know, Bobby wasn’t too clear on that bit. Thing is, they’ve found the address the demons are using. 666 Wetval Road.”

“Six sixty six?”

“I know, could you be more obvious? It’s like they don’t care who finds them or they’re advertising their presence.”

“So a trap.”

“Yes. The hunters said they were heading out this morning to go spring it. Which is bad, because these things never go well.”

“That’s just great. How many of them are there?”

“The hunters? From what it sounded like, a party of three, but I guess there could be more Bobby didn’t mention. All of them went. No word so far on how it’s going, but I don’t expect any for another hour at least. It’s barely seven over there. Are you paying or should I?”

“I’ve got cash left over from Vegas, so I’ll do it. Hey, what with your psychic thing, you reckon after this is over we could-“

“No.”

“Spoilsport.” Dean rolled his eyes and headed off to the till. He came back with a pack of mints and a chocolate bar, which he threw in Sam’s lap before getting back into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

“What are these for?”

“The mints are to keep you occupied so you’re not bugging my ear all day. The chocolate’s for eating, because you haven’t in twenty hours. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it anyway; I’m not having you flagging on a hunt because you’re too stubborn to take care of yourself, Sammy. And get some sleep as well.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Sam, I sold my soul to get you back from the dead. I will not let you risk your life over nothing, so either you eat and sleep now or I strap you down using the seat belt and won’t let you out with me on the demon hunt until you’ve had a good four hours.”

“Wow, I never knew you were into that stuff. Kinky.”

“I’m deadly serious, Sam.”

“Agh, fine.” Sam scrunched up his nose and took a chomp of the chocolate, swallowing the chunks before they had even melted. “Happhy nhow?” he asked, stuffing the second lot in his mouth. A third, and it was all gone.

“Dude, we should enter you for a pie eating contest. That was fast. Do you want another?”

“No. Eating just makes me feel sick at the moment. Can we go already?”

They went.

Dean drove like a skillful maniac, managing to more than double the speed limit in quite a few places, but still being very careful not to crash. For one, it would ruin the car. For two, it would probably kill Sam who was lying sideways in the back seat, and even though angels were apparently watching over the two of them there was no way he wanted to grovel to Castiel for a healing.

“I can’t get to sleep.”

Dean gritted his teeth. “Have you tried counting sheep?”

“Ye-e-eees. They keep flashing demon eyes and attacking me.”

“Go sing a lullaby, then.” Trees shot past on both sides, too fast to be much more than blurs of autumn colour in the windows.

“”What, like Mary had a little lamb?”

“That’s a nursery rhyme, not a lullaby.” And it hit too close to home.

“It originally referred to Jesus, you know. The lamb of god.” His nerdy little brother was still keeping it up, even as the effects of sleep deprivation began to set in. “Course, that would be you now, Mary’s little lamb. Everyone knows I don’t have a fleece that’s white as snow. I’m the black sheep. Baa.” He muttered to himself a little more, things Dean couldn’t hear and figured he wasn’t meant to, before relaxing into deeper breathing and the softest hint of a snore.

He pulled them in at an IHOP with an hour to go on the road and a heat haze making the tarmac throw up mirages in the afternoon air. Dean was starving - the buffet last night had been awesome, but still, no breakfast. Hence the need for pancakes.

“Sammy, come on, it’s time for brunch.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” was the reply from the back seat. Dean started. Sam was awake?

“Just how long have you been pretending to sleep?”

“…All of it. I was trying, I swear, but my body’s just not sleepy anymore.”

“Well, enough of that now. It’s time for some munchies.”

Sam groaned and pushed the Impala’s door open, taking in the parking lot and the oversized IHOP sign.

“I told you, no food.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for me. One massive stack with bacon and maple syrup is just what I need right now, and you are coming in to watch me scarf it. And if you change your mind once you smell the warm buttery goodness? Well, shame, we’ll have to order one for you too.”

“Please, Dean. Don’t. If you keep talking like that I feel I might throw up.”

Dean put the back of his hand against Sam’s forehead, checking his temperature. It was shockingly cool, the exact opposite of what he’d suspected it might be.

“What are you doing, Dean?”

“Checking for fever. Think about it. Mood swings, depression, insomnia, not eating? This isn’t how you function on a normal day. I think Peter may have nabbed you with something slow-acting.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Yes!” Sam huffed and folded his arms. “If that’s the best you can come up with, you’re way off track. It’s not that. We’ve established I’m immune to that sort of stuff.”

“He was one of the Special kids. He had extra mojo.”

“And I was immune to that too. And the Croatoan thing, also demonic. In fact, let’s just tick all the boxes and drop the issue - I’m not ill, okay?”

“Then did you have a bad taco or what? Because I am not convinced your psychotic break and food aversion cropped up out of nowhere.”

“I-” Sam broke off like his throat had stopped working. Then he started saying things to himself under his breath. If it weren’t for the cars racing past on the highway Dean would be able to hear them - as it was, he caught a few “I should-”s and at least one “doesn’t mean-”.

“You’re starting to scare me. Something is really wrong with you, Sam, and if it’s just food poisoning from that shady diner we had lunch at yesterday then I’d be relieved, even though I’d owe you a told-you-so on the vegetarian curry.”

“Dean.” Sam was now looking straight at him. “I have not eaten anything in the last forty-eight hours that could possibly make me feel this way. Do you understand?”

“No, I-”

“Do. You. Understand?” Those eyes were boring into Dean, trying to convey something important. And the way he had emphasised that last sentence… Could Sam possibly mean that-

Dean’s phone rang. The ringtone chirped tinnily through the tiny speakers, and the moment was interrupted. He answered the call.

“Sam, are you there?”

“Bobby? This is Dean.”

“You’re talking to me while driving? Stop being irresponsible and hand the phone back to your brother.”

“Actually, we stopped for lunch, so I’m all free to chat. What’s up? It’s bad news.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s always bad news.”

“You’re right, it is bad. The three guys that were checking the place out over in Eugene? Not one of them called in to confirm the hunt had gone okay. It’s been two hours since they were meant to report, so I rang their phones. Static, all three of them. Not even an answerphone or no signal message - just static, as loud as the volume on this thing will let it go.”

“Crap.”

“So you two finish your lunch and get over there as soon as possible, ya hear me?”

“I hear you, Bobby. Where did you say it was?”

“666 Wetval road.” Sam interjected.

“Kid has a good memory.”

“Yeah, I think it runs in the family. Alright, Bobby, we’ll bump it up priority, and phone you once we have a clue what’s going on. Bye.” Dean hung up without waiting for Bobby’s reply. “Your lucky day, Sammy. Looks like we’re not feasting on pancakes after all. Come on, back into the car.”

 

  
* * *

Sam rode shotgun this time, browsing a mapbook for navigation once they turned off the interstate and into the town. Row after row of spacious, luxurious and soulless houses passed them on either side, each whitewashed set of walls blending into the next. Wetval road was part of an upmarket housing estate, but that didn’t stop the boarded-up windows and smashed glass of the occasional house or the graffiti scrawled over the road.

Like the Devil’s trap at the T-junction they nearly drove right over, until Sam noticed with flashing eyes and told him to stop the car. They got out and Dean watched him inspect the dried brown paint, chipping off a fragment and sniffing it with his nose.

“Blood. Angel blood. Or the blood of an angel’s vessel, if you look at it that way.”

“You’ve never seen an angel bleed, Sam. What makes you so sure?”

“Trust me, I can tell blood apart better than a vampire. This guy is - was - O positive before he got nabbed, as a side note.”

“Then that makes no sense.” Dean brushed a hand over it. It wasn’t even sticky, meaning it had been there a few days or more. “Why would the demons go to all this trouble to harvest the blood of an angel, only to use it to add power to possibly the one symbol that weakens them most?”

“Because it was an angel who did this. Look.” Sam gestured to one side of the T-junction and Dean saw a footpath, little more than a gravel track, leading between the hedges of two gardens and up towards a gate. “This is a crossroads. It would be a strengthening point for demons and possibly a way to slip back into Hell, but the angels won’t have that. So they ring-fenced the power source.”

“And this is just one guy’s blood, you say?”

“Yes.”

“…Wow.” Dean whistled appreciatively, casting his eyes over the thickly painted lines of the pentagram. “He’s not recovering from that very soon. Has to be most of the blood in the body.”

“Angels follow orders, and this is probably what he was ordered to do.” There was something in Sam’s voice, something derisive. “They don’t even bat an eyelid at mutilating their vessel if it means the job is done.”

“To be fair, we don’t either.”

“Yeah, but we - you - you own your body, Dean. It’s yours to do what you like. With the angels it’s more like they agreed on being a tenant, and then knocked the house down.”

“Hey, Sammy, don’t get me wrong. I’m not defending them. Which way now?”

Sam pointed. “Up there. We’re at 681, so let’s just walk it. Grab the guns and holy water.”

The place was eerie. The sun was shining brightly overhead, so it wasn’t eerie in the same way a moonless night was, but there was something about these houses and how they all looked alike. Cardboard cut-outs of each other, like this place was a movie set and they hadn’t taken time to design enough scenery.

It set alarm bells of it’s a trap! ringing in his head.

“I am getting the weirdest sense of deja vu at the moment, Sammy.”

Sam snorted - wait, what was so funny? - and spun around to face him from where he’d been leading the way. “Deja vu? Dean, you have no idea about deja vu; I’ve been here before. Everything is familiar.”

“In a vision?”

“Sure.” Sam twirled around, staring at his feet. “At least I have a shadow now."

 

  
* * *

666 Wetval road was… exactly like the other hundred or so houses on this estate, plus the fact that the windows were shattered into tiny pieces and glass glinted on the lawn. Not that good a sign. They knew exactly what glass shards meant by now.

Dean knocked on the door - on the first knock it swung open from the force of the push, someone having destroyed (melted, it looked like) the handle mechanism.

“Sam?” he looked back and called. Sam was still standing on the lawn, checking over the glass. He’d been doing that before as well, back when Cas and Zeke had blown up the motel lights. “Come on, you’re supposed to be watching my back.”

“It’s angels. They broke it. The pattern’s a uniform shattering, made by a sonic blast rather than a physical impact.”

“I pretty much guessed that.”

Inside, there was the sting of ozone and smoke mixed with the smell of fresh gore, and someone had ripped chunks out of the walls rather than bothering with doorways. The plaster dust mixed with glints of a broken mirror on the floor, making it look like a snowstorm had ripped through the place.

“Should we split up?” Sam asked.

“No. I’m not leaving you alone on this. Hey.” There was blood on the wall, a smear made by someone injured. Someone running. “Let’s go through here.”

Inside was what could have been a dining room, but with a plastic cover over the floor and a girl’s body slumped over it, face down, bleeding over the symbol covering it.

“It’s an angel ward, Dean.”

“How do you know?” They couldn’t see enough of the markings to verify.

“Because they ripped it up. The hunters.” Sam tugged at one end of the sheet and, yes, Dean realised that the body had been covering up the jagged edges of two sheets, split nearly exactly down the centre. “That’s a demon, by the way. I can smell her blood.”

“And you’re not-”

“A bit, but I’m not exactly in withdrawal. I can resist fine.”

“Good.” Dean kicked the demon’s body over, not taking much care since it wasn’t human anyway, off the tear. She rolled onto her back and her face, and her eyes… “Okay, I see what you mean. Mosquitos are on the loose, and this thing’s broken? Has to be an angel ward.” Her eyes were a burned-out mess.

“So what do you think happened here?”

“I think our hunter buddies ripped up the ward. They must have thought it was a power source, or something. Then this demon runs over and tries to fix it, but… boom.”

“I guess we’ll never know exactly what… unless…” Sam went to his knees in the corner, and Dean had just noticed that there was another body in the room, but his little brother was apparently ignoring it and picking up the phone lying on the ground nearby. “Whose is this? Demons don’t do telephones. It might be one of our lot. Maybe they filmed something.”

If they did, it wasn’t retrievable. Turning it on displayed the loading screen and warning beeps before powering off again. Sam promised to have a look at it later, and stowed the thing away in his pocket.

“But if it belonged to a hunter, where is he now? There can’t just be one or two demons behind this, Sam. Too big an event.”

Sam ducked through the hole in the wall on the far side of the room.

“Let’s go look for them. You have the holy water ready?”

“Right here.” There was the sound of a door swinging open and Sam’s voice came again.

“Is there a rope in the car?”

“What?” Dean caught up to see Sam staring down into a hole in the floor, inside the cupboard under the stairs. Sam bent down to brush the side of the hole and his fingers came up stained with ash.

“It looks like there used to be a ladder here, but something set it on fire. It’s still warm.” He peered into the darkness. “It’s not too far down, but this leads to the middle of a basement. There’s no wall to climb back up.”

“Hello? Is anyone alive down there?!”

No response.

 

  
* * *

Dean jogged back to the Impala to get a rope they knew would hold them, deciding to park it right outside the house. He didn’t see a single living soul anywhere in the neighbourhood, just like with what the angels had done in Casper. How? They probably weren’t all dead. But some spell had been cast to keep them out of the way. Avoiding collateral damage, and avoiding exposure. The guys upstairs had serious firepower in their hands.

He got back to see that Sam had gotten impatient while he’d been gone, and had jumped down the hole to investigate.

“Dean, you need to see this. There are… there are a lot of bodies. I think I’ve pinpointed the three hunters, but…”

He tied one end of the rope to the door, and lowered himself down while praying it would hold. There wasn’t anything else to tie it on to.

“Ouch.” Sam hadn’t been lying. “Which ones are human?”

“Those three. No pulse on any of them.” They were like ragdolls on the floor, bones at odd angles, within bouncing distance of the trapdoor. “There are burns on their hands. I think they were climbing down when the ladder flared up.”

“So they didn’t do it themselves?”

“No.”

The rest of the bodies - demons, Dean reasoned - were scattered haphazardly over the wreckage of the room. Because it was wrecked, shredded and scorched, and it smelt like a lightning strike had hit. Angels. Every single one had burned eyes. Whatever had happened here, there were no survivors.

“What do we do now?”

“I… we phone Bobby.” He tried. “No signal. We go back up the rope and phone Bobby. Then 911. Wipe your fingerprints; I don’t want them taking us off the dead list. There’s nothing we can do here.”

“So we were too late. Two days of driving like a maniac, and we were too late.”

“Sammy, it’s not your fault.”

“That doesn’t bring people back to life, Dean.” Sam sighed. “I should have done something earlier, then maybe I could have saved them.”

“Listen to me. There was nothing you could have done differently, okay? Don’t be hard on yourself. Three deaths isn’t as bad as it could have been.”

“All the vessels too. Whatever the angels kill them with, it kills the host. And if I’d wanted to, I could have-” Sam cut off. Swallowed thickly, and shook his head. “No, there’s no sense thinking like that. Don’t think like that.”

“I’m going to check the rest of the house. Come on.”

“…I’ll stay here and wipe fingerprints. I got them over quite a few things.”

“Fine. But if you need me, I’m just up the rope.” Dean turned and began to climb, hand over hand, back to the light and fresh air of the first floor.

 

  
* * *

Sam watched him go.

_“Why are we staying, anyway? We didn’t touch anything here.”_

“We are being watched, Sam.”

_“By who?”_

“Reveal yourself, Castiel. That is an order.”

The air shifted and grew heavy; Castiel materialised in a dark corner of the room and hesitantly approached.

“Why have you called me?”

“Because I don’t like being spied upon. You are the being that did this?”

“Yes.”

“Then my vessel has something to say to you.” Sam felt his awareness sharpen with the transfer of control. _“Decide his fate. If you wish him dead I will smite him to ash.”_

“Why did you do it, Cas?”

“I followed my orders.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s an excuse. Why did you do it?”

Castiel frowned. “I do not understand you. I carried out the tasks directed to me by my superiors. Other than that, I have no reason.”

“And that doesn’t, I don’t know, bother you at all? I mean, that’s over thirty people dead in this room. You don’t seem to care.”

“My kin will shepherd the souls of the worthy to eternal bliss, and the unworthy will be judged for their sins. All is as it should be.”

“So death doesn’t bother you either, huh? You’re not even the slightest bit regretful.”

“No.”

“That’s sick.”

Silence hung between them, Castiel quite clearly not sure what to say.

“…It is not my responsibility to dictate the morality of my own actions. I am a weapon, not the hand that wields it.”

“It shouldn’t be like that. It really should not be like that. Because this level of obedience? It’s messed up. The most powerful beings in the universe are all tied together in a brainwashed cult, and it’s inhuman.”

“I am not a human.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear. So why are you still hanging around?”

“I was ordered to reveal myself, and have not yet been dismissed.”

“Okay, so you’re free to go then. Flap off. I’m dismissing you. Now why are you still here?”

Castiel hadn’t moved an inch.

“I have not yet been dismissed by the one with authority to do so.”

“…He wants me to kill you, you know.” Sam tapped his skull. “He thinks it might help me blow off some steam, as well as letting him flex his powers.”

No answer.

“Would you just stand there and let yourself die, if he ordered you to?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“Why?”

“Because that is how it should be.”

“If you’re willing to die as well as kill, I guess that makes you genuine. Not that you’re not screwed up in the head, because you are. It’s just that your commanders are the ones I need to take up the morality issue with, since you seem to have no spine of your own.”

Castiel again said nothing to counter this, but he looked lost. Uncomfortable, like this challenge wasn’t supposed to ever happen.

“So are all of the angels like this or are you defective in some way?”

“The chain of command is most important to us all. In our unity we can face any obstacle.”

“…No wonder you punish defectors so harshly, if you’re what an ideal angel should be. I knew you weren’t cuddly rainbows, but I also didn’t see it coming that Heaven is a fascist dictatorship.”

“We are obedient to God’s will. What He has specified is what should be, and there is no shame in submission to His plan.”

“I really should kill you. Not because of these,” Sam gave a pointed look around the room, “Because I think I understand your ethics code enough to know I can’t blame you for that. But even if you are Dean’s guardian, you’re still one of our enemies. Besides, I can protect Dean just fine, and there’s enough angel in my body for both of us.”

Castiel nodded and sank to his knees, head bowed. Sam raised a hand and whacked his ear.

“I said should, not would. Because fuck this, I have something called a moral compass, and I know when to use it! There won’t be any more death here. Not on my watch.”

“As you wish. May I leave?”

“What, you’re asking me? What happened to the ignoring commands thing?”

“When you speak, you speak on the authority of the being inside you. I have seen that now. Sam Winchester, I apologise for slights I have made against you in the past.”

“Just… enough of that, Cas. Enough. Stop the hero-worship please, it’s honestly creepy. And yeah, stay or go; do what you want. I’m going to find my brother.” Sam closed his eyes, and when he opened them they flared blue, right before he disappeared. After all, why would an angel demean themselves by climbing a rope when they could fly?

Castiel remained there in the basement, mind buzzing, unable to comprehend what he’d just been told.

_“It’s simple, isn’t it? Us humans don’t fit into the petty little command chain. And your orders are nothing more than the dirty work nobody else wants to do, and the people ordering you about aren’t even the good guys. Neither are you, Castiel. Neither am I.”_

He ignored James Novak and, with a last glance around at the results of his handiwork, flew off to find Uriel so that he might confess his newfound doubts and find a way to restore his faith.


	11. Chapter 11

They cast the net out wide for hunting cases the next morning, not wanting to make the trip east unless they absolutely had to. Around here had been the site of their first few hunting trips without Dad, so they were sort-of acquainted with the local myths and legends, knowing the signs to watch out for in the newspapers.

Demon activity was still at an all time low, minus the event they had just witnessed and the ever-present Wyoming nightmare, but it seemed like other supernatural creatures weren’t affected in the same way. In fact, business was booming, though that was of course a bad thing.

“We can pretty much pick and choose. What do you want to hunt?”

Sam shrugged and kept typing on his laptop, fingers whirring over the keys with a speed that belied the touch-typing lessons he’d probably had at Stanford. “Don’t mind. You pick.”

“What are you doing there, anyway?”

“Typing.” Duh. Sam stopped and exited the hell out of whatever he’d just been working on, flipping the laptop shut just as Dean managed to catch a glimpse of the screen. No dice, he hadn’t seen anything. “Could you please, I dunno, respect my privacy a bit?”

“Only if you tell me what it is. You were doing the same thing in the car yesterday, so it’s not like you’re just mucking about for boredom.”

“It’s a diary.” Dean’s eyebrows nearly shot off his face. “Yes, really. God, Dean, I’m allowed to keep a diary - it’s not like it’s illegal!”

“You. A diary. As in, like, Dad’s journal? Recording all the beasties we’re ganking?”

“Sort of.”

“Then it’s fine if I look at it, isn’t it?”

“No!” But it was too late - Dean had already snatched away the laptop from Sam’s unwary hands, and opened it up to look for the file. “Ah, don’t bother. I password-protected it.”

“You think so little of me you’d assume I’d go through your stuff without permission? Sammy, that’s hurtful.” He spotted a shortcut saved to the bottom of the start bar that looked promising and clicked it, ignoring his little brother’s dark scowl.

Sam apparently had not lied about the password. A simple text entry, case not considered, and a message telling him he had five attempts before it would shut him off for an hour. Guessing time. Hmm…

W-I-N-C-H-E-S-T-E-R.

4 attempts remaining.

“Dean, you’re not going to guess it. Don’t even try.” Now was it just him, or was that the agitated tone of someone who knew they might actually be smoked out?

“Come on, Sam, work with me here. Is it one of your stupid random alphanumerical strings, or do I have a shot at this? I want to know if it’s an actual word or phrase with some sense to it.”

“…It’s a word. But-”

“And it’s a meaningful word, right? To you? Not just something out a dictionary?”

Sam sighed. “Yes, it’s a meaningful word. But you won’t get it.”

“Oh yeah? Watch me.”

L-U-C-K-Y.

3 attempts remaining. Dean swore gently under his breath, and Sam chose that moment to launch his assault for control of the laptop. One flurried round of wrestling later, Dean sat victorious on his brother’s torso, pondering what to try next.

“Get off me.”

“You’re getting weak, Sammy. Can’t put all that extra height into a good pin.”

“I’ll stick a pin in you if you don’t let up. And stop trying to read my diary. Isn’t that what girls do?”

Dean grimaced. “Okay, got me there, but I’m far too curious for this. Now, what’s the most meaningful word in a guy’s life? …His name.”

S-A-M. Sam drew in a shocked breath and went completely still. Dean’s hand hovered over the enter key. He clicked.

2 attempts remaining.

“Damn, I was so sure that was it. What with your reaction and all.”

“Let me up, Dean.”

Dean let him up. Sam almost immediately made a grab for his computer but Dean scuttled across the bed and out of the firing line.

“This isn’t funny anymore!”

“Sammy, if you’re so confident in your passcode skills, why are you even bothered? Just let me at this - I’ve only got two more, anyways. If I can crack this it will demonstrate my epic cyber-powers. Please?”

“Will you promise to give it back after you fail the next two?” Sam had a dark look across his face.

“If I fail the next two. Have some faith in me, dude.”

“Promise you will give it back when you fail.”

“…Only if you promise that when I don’t, you won’t stop me. I get full permission to read whatever is on there.”

“Done.” Sam plopped himself on the bed, throwing his head back onto the pillows, accidentally hitting the headboard with a thud, and then cradling his skull with tears in his eyes. “Ow.”

“Careful, clumsy. I thought you were done with the growth spurts. Now, attempt number four…” Dean cracked his knuckles and squinted at the passcode entry screen. It wasn’t that special, in normal Windows format, so if push came to shove he could take it to a tech shop while Sam was out and find some other way to access the files.

“So? What word are you picking this time?”

“I was thinking that I was probably along the right lines. Earlier. You went all funny beneath me when I said your name.” Sam made that choked snorting sound that happens when you try to hold in laughter. “What?”

“Do you even realise what you just said?”

“I-” Dean mentally rebooted and went over the last few seconds, before his face screwed up in disgust. “Ew, no, not like that! Sam, get your mind out of the gutter!”

“You said it.”

“In a completely non-sexual way, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good. So for this passcode. I’m thinking it is a name. Your name. Because something was definitely up with your reaction earlier, and you know what? Sam’s short for something.”

S-A-M. He stopped there, with Sam having scooted back around to see the screen again, and then hesitantly continued. U-E-L.

1 attempt remaining.

“Fuck!”

“Dean, you shouldn’t curse so much. What would Dad say?” Dean could hear the grin in Sam’s voice, the ‘I-told-you-so’ dripping off his words.

“Dad’s dead.”

“Well I bet they curse even less up in Heaven, so it counts for double.”

“I’m not detecting much respect for his memory here. Anyways, I still have one more try. It’s not over yet.”

“Oh yeah? From the way I see it you’re at square one with four out of five wasted. It’s not looking up for you, Dean.”

He’d been onto something, at least, with the name thing. Dean was sure of it. And if it wasn’t Sam’s own name, then who was it? Jess’s? Or…

“Hey, Sammy, do you remember your seventh birthday party?”

Sam’s face furrowed in confusion. “No. I didn’t even have a seventh birthday party, we moved house-”

“The one where you invited three of your friends from school for a sleepover and I spiked your juices with a can of beer.”

“That was my eighth. Wait, that was you? Do you have any idea how disgusting that was to drink, Dean? Alcohol tasted like petrol back then, blegh.”

“Yeah, well I learned my lesson. I had to mop up after four eight year olds with hangovers, and two of them wet the bed in the night. Not the best day after. But you remember the fort you built when they’d just come round?”

The four buggers had commandeered Dean’s (and Sam’s) bedroom, stripped the sheets from every bed in the house, raided the wardrobes for anything remotely soft and squishy, and built themselves a tent huddled around the radiator. Then they’d proceeded to post a lookout at the door to keep grown-ups away and mucked about with flashlights and ghost stories with the blinds shut.

Dean had been deemed a grown-up and wasn’t invited - unless he knew the passcode that Sam had specifically set.

“That was decades ago. Why would I reuse that one?” Let’s just say that Sam wasn’t very imaginative with passwords. Dean had it in one try.

It was a side effect of the hunting thing, but even Dean age twelve could tell ghost stories to make a grown man quake in his boots. So he’d quit the room to get them all comfort juice as a way to stop their terror, seen a lone can of Dad’s beer, and things had gone rather downhill from there. Little kids had startlingly low alcohol tolerances.

“Because it’s true. You worship the ground I walk on, Sammy.”

D-E-A-N.

…No attempts remaining. Please try again in 1 hour.

Sam pinched the laptop back with a beaming smile. “Told you you’d fail. Guess you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.” …The smile faded.

“Well? Do I get to know what it is?”

“No, because then you’d wait fifty-nine minutes and steal the computer off me again. If anything, you should apologise for stopping me writing for an hour - I was kind of in the middle of a paragraph before you butted in, you know.”

“Aww, I’m so sorry I disrupted your literary genius, Sammy. Maybe now you might actually get some work done. What do you want to hunt? I’m easy.”

“I don’t care. Pick something nearby and non-demonic, because I’m bored of driving. It’s so pointless anyway.”

“Woah, wait.” Dean held up a finger. “Did you just call driving my Baby something pointless? Because I think you have some explaining to do.”

“Come on, Dean, it is. It’s risky, it’s tiring, it’s boring, and it takes too long to get anywhere. Face it, the only reason I put up with driving is that it’s cheap and you hate flying.” Sam then proceeded to go white and clap a hand over his mouth. “Oh god, I just said that out loud. Shit.”

“I spent the last few days at the wheel, hours on end, trying to save people’s lives, and you just sat in the backseat and did nothing.”

“Dean, I didn’t mean-”

“Just stop it, Sam, okay? Stop it.” Dean wiped sweat from his forehead. “It’s not worth yelling and sulking about. I stole your laptop; you bashed on my car. Let’s call it quits and go hunting.”

So they went hunting.

  
* * *

Sam picked a case, the closest one possible, barely half an hour away where some church had bells that rang at odd times of the night. Same time every night, even though nobody was inside. No deaths so far, and it didn’t look like there would be, because whatever spirit hadn’t been laid to rest properly in the cemetery wasn’t likely to be vengeful. The overwhelming majority of ghosts weren’t - he and Dean just had their lenses focused wrong by only being called in for the ones that went psycho.

The Impala rocketed along the road, Dean at the wheel bopping his head to some godawful B-side rock song he wasn’t even sure what the title of was. Sam himself gave his best shot at singing along to the words. By now he had the chorus almost down pat.

Dean probably thought he was doing it to make up, but in reality it was just to shut out the intermittent one-sided conversation in his head.

_“But Sam, you even said it yourself. Cars just seem so… pathetic when you can fly.”_

“Hey Dean?” Sam yelled above the roar of the song. “Who are we talking to first about our ghost?”

“We’re meeting the Vicar for lunch, since he’s had hunter contact before and he says he might know who it - Holy Fuck!”

The car swerved. Sam was jerked around in his seat and his neck whipped. He’d seen it too of course, the ghostly mirage that had shimmered from nowhere onto the road, one hand flat out in the universal sign for stop.

They shot past but Dean was already squealing on the breaks, and it took barely thirty feet for them to stop.

“Shit, is that who I think it is?!” There was a note of hysteria in Dean’s voice, and there were footsteps walking calmly up to them. Sam’s neck was aching, but he strained to look around and now that he got a better view he recognised the figure as well.

“Yeah.” Just their luck.

“He’s dead! I killed him!” Just. Their. Luck. “Twice!”

“Let’s just hope he’s not out for revenge, then.” Of course he wouldn’t be. Sam knew exactly why he was here - this was the being who had made it his mission to screw over their lives as much as he possibly could. Revenge was nothing in the face of pure chaos like this.

“Should we try to outrun him?” He was taking his sweet time, strolling leisurely up with an unhurried gait and a sense that all the time in the world was his.

“Dean, I think that would probably just make things worse.”

And then he was upon them, tapping Dean’s window to make him roll it down, and Dean compiled in a terrified sort of way.

“Hello, you two.” The Trickster beamed at them. “Sam, Dean. It’s nice to see you again. Did you miss me?”

And with a click of his fingers the world went crazy.

  
* * *

Dean was still in the car.

He was still in the car, thank goodness, but the key wasn’t in the ignition and Sam wasn’t in the passenger seat. The world outside was nothing like he’d remembered it being just a few seconds ago.

“Motherfucker split us up.” A quick supply check confirmed his fears - no Colt this time, though the rest of the hunting gear was intact. Dean picked up his usual salt shotgun along with a lighter change of clothes and bug spray he put on because it was swelteringly humid outside.

A tropical rainforest, that’s what it looked like, though Dean knew nothing about these plants and couldn’t tell where on the planet he was. Or even if he was on Earth at all. There was every chance this whole area was just another construct and he was, in fact, knocked out somewhere back in reality.

The air was more water than air, hanging thickly and condensing to dampen his clothes from the outside. The road was a dirt track overhung by broad-leaved trees with only a few glimmers of sunlight. The forest continued in all directions as far as the eye could see, although Dean openly admitted that wasn't far due to the thickness of the underbrush.

No car keys meant no car unless he was willing to hotwire it, though on attempting to he realised the Trickster had sealed it so he couldn't get to the workings. It looked like he'd be on foot from here on out.

So Dean picked one of the two directions at random, and started walking. Mud squelched under his shoes.

Rustle. Movement off to his left. Dean scoured the leaves with his flashlight and saw the reflection of snakelike eyes staring back at him. He raised the gun and shot. There was a bang and a high pitched squeal, then nothing more. Dean continued on.

The next time it was already out on the track before he could have a chance to take good aim, and once he caught a glimpse of what it was he just couldn't shoot. He was too busy being dumbfounded.

That was a velociraptor.

Or at least some other type of dinosaur, because it wasn't like he knew anything about them besides what had been on Jurassic Park. But this one was smaller than the ones on there; it barely came past his knee in height, and it was maybe half-covered in feathers. It reminded Dean of what a chicken might look like a hundred years after the zombie apocalypse, complete with mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. The hesitation was the opening it needed, but instead of attacking it scampered away from him over to the other side of the path.

Dean soon learned that this neck of the woods was chock full of mini-dinos, most of them harmless and terrified of him, and actually rather cute. He tried to pet one and it nearly chomped his hand off, but apart from that incident they hadn't shown the slightest interest in human flesh. It was a nice change from what he'd expected.

Either the Trickster had thrown him back in time, which was probably doable due to the powers he'd shown at the Mystery Spot but unlikely (the tracks on the path made it very clear cars had used it), or he was smack-bang in a real life set construct of a dinosaur movie. The question was, why? What whacko adventure was he meant to be doing now?

Or maybe he wasn't. It was always Sam that the Trickster seemed interested in tormenting. He was nothing more than an aside, something to be used. So maybe this place was just a way to get him  _out_ of the way while Sam faced up to whatever humorously deadly situation he'd been thrown in now.

With that in mind, Dean quickened his pace.

  
* * *

“Why did you bring us here?” Lucifer asked, blade out and at the ready, facing off against the Trickster who was examining his nails with fake interest. Sam had been thrown out of control the instant everything shifted away, leaving him disorientated and confused in a strange land while unable to look around.

“Because. I got bored of Earth and you trashed my last house so I got creative when making a new one. You like it, Lucy?”

Lucy. He knew? The Trickster knew he was in a standoff with the devil, and he didn’t even seem bothered? What the Hell was going on?

“Oooh, Sammy doesn’t know who I am. Weird, I thought you’d tell him - stranger danger and all that. Still, this opens up possibilities…”

“He’s Gabriel.”

_“What?”_

The Trickster pouted. “And I was just beginning to think of scenarios for the big reveal too. Eh, never mind. Archangel Gabriel, at your service. The one you’re currently impersonating to dear baby brother Castiel. Which I’m perfectly fine with, by the way; that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here, brother?” Lucifer kept his blade raised at an angle that glinted in the sunlight, and Sam realised they must be outside and in some sort of clearing. He still couldn’t look around.

“Are you kidding me? I’m here about Sam. Or at least, about the cracks in his soul. I’ve seen people with ten years on the rack that are less damaged than he is at the moment. What did you do?”

_“I - there are cracks in my soul?!”_

“Yup. Millions of them. Don’t worry, they’re small at the moment, but you have almost as many as Dean has and I say, that is an achievement. He was thirty years in Hell and just past breaking point,” Gabriel said, “Though being a Righteous Man counts for something big on the resistance front. And yes, before you ask, I am reading your mind. Perks of being an archangel. But the point is, something blitzed your emotional state, Sam, and I designated myself to be the one that cleans up after my dearest brother’s botched handiwork.” He rolled his eyes. “Did the introduction thing not go too well?”

“That is… a reasonably fair assessment.”

“Thought so. Well, what are you waiting for? Wipe his memory and we’ll do it again.”

_“Wipe my-”_

“No. I promised him I would not do that and I don’t break my promises, Gabriel.”

“Oh, of course you don’t. You should really get over that habit, it doesn’t much help. Well, we’ll have to work around that, I suppose. Let him out.”

_“You were going to wipe my mind?!”_

“Nothing personal, Sam. Now budge up big bro, let Sammy have some space to himself. I can sense his distress all the way over here, and he needs a bit of time to check out where we are.”

Sam found himself suddenly able to move all of his limbs - so suddenly, in fact, that the act of transition caused him to lose balance and fall over backwards into a bewildered sitting position on the grass. Way to go, making a fool out of yourself in front of two of the most powerful beings on the planet.

“Universe, actually. If you’re just counting Earth we  _are_  the two biggest fish in the pond, assuming Dad’s not vacationing under our noses.”

“Will you quit with the mind reading?!” His shout made birds take flight from a tree not far away. Gabriel blinked, pressing eyelids together for two seconds, and then-

“Done. Blocked out your thoughts so we can have a more two-way chat. Here,” He crouched down and reached out a hand. “Stand back up.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sam asked as he grasped the offered hand and hauled himself shakily to his feet.

“Because my brother was in the Cage for a quarter of a million years and taking a vessel without heavily scarring them is something that requires sustained practice. Trust me, I’m the expert here.” Gabriel wasn’t letting go of Sam’s hand. Instead he sliced open a tiny gash in the palm and sniffed it. “Demon blood. Yeah, I thought I smelt that. I take it that’s the reason for the frosty relationship?”

 _“Mostly.”_  Sam flinched.

“Is he saying something? Shut up Lucifer; I’m heart-to-hearting with your vessel, not you. Sam, you’re going to have to relay me his contributions since I can’t pick them up unless I reinstate the mind reading. Or are you cool with that?”

“Please don’t. Um, he says mostly. About the blood thing.”

“And is he right?”

“What?” Sam didn’t understand.

“Is it the demon blood that’s got you all freaked, or did he do something else? There’s something else. I don’t even need mindreading for that; it’s plain as day on your face. Luci, what did you do to him?”

_"Do you want to tell him or should I?"_

"I don't really…" Sam could no longer move his limbs. " _Hey!"_

"We had a disagreement of morals."

"Oh, really?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Color me not surprised at all. You're Satan for a reason, you know. Go away; I'm not talking to you."

"You have no right to expel me from my body."

"It's Sam's. Not yours. Not yet, though I suppose it will be in time. See, Luci, there's this thing you're not getting, and I didn't  _expect_ you to get it but that doesn't mean I'm not disappointed."

"You think I have no notion of consent? Because I assure you, brother, I do."

"Hah! No you don't. The world has changed since you got locked up. Pulling memories out of Sam's head is all well and good, but you didn't experience it. People are different. Less killing, more negotiations, more freedoms, more rights. You're an old bugger stuck two thousand years in the past, and you know what? I don't care. But I do care that my favorite brother is mishandling his true vessel, like he doesn't know the privilege he gets by  _having_  one. So I'll make you a deal."

"I'm not interested."

"Oh, I think you will be. What do you say, Sam? Oh, yeah, can't hear you. I'll just assume you're in agreement. See, even Sam wants you to take this deal!"

"Go away, Gabriel."

"That's one of the conditions." Gabriel frowned and looked behind him. "Ah, Dean's found the signpost. But back to what I was saying: a deal. We fight for it. Straight fight, non-lethal but otherwise no holds barred. You win, and I'll never make contact with Sam or his brother again. No more tricks, no more stalking, no more letters."

"You believe you can match me in power?"

"It's not what you have that matters, it's how you use it. Aren't you going to ask what will happen when you lose?"

"No."

Gabriel sighed. "I'll tell you anyway. Same condition, except the other way around. You never make contact with Sam or Dean again."

"You want me to give up my vessel."

"Not so much, but I do want you to stay  _out_  of things. You keep meddling with events, someone's going to notice, and if we manage to piss off Death or Dad this place is going to burn in hellfire that makes the apocalypse look like a sunny day at the beach. So here's the deal: you go silent. Dark. Stay in Sam or leave if you like, but don't talk to him, don't take control of him, and generally let things go about normally. You even have to let him age. When he dies a natural death, and I don't mean something you _engineered_  because I know tampering when I see it, then you can resurrect and deage and hop off wherever you want once his corpse is dead and buried and won't be missed. It has to be airtight."

"I won't agree to those terms."

"You won't have much choice. Because if you break your word, then I have ways of punishing you. Not directly, but I can tattle. First thing? I'll tell Dean what's going on. That the devil has his brother in a chokehold. Then I'll take Dean to Michael and inform him that's the only way to save Sam. I'd place bets on how long it would take him to say yes, and not one of them would be over ten seconds. Michael would welcome me back with open arms, we'd be one happy family, and you'd be reincarnated as an amoeba in a hot spring if Death was kind and there was enough left of your soul after our dear big brother was done stomping on you."

"Then why should I agree?"

"Because you want me out of this, don't you? Besides, if you're so confident in your power, it should be a snitch. Just fire a couple of atom bombs in my general direction. I couldn't possibly stand up to that."

Lucifer took three steps back. "Then I agree."

"Good." Gabriel smiled and nodded. "I was hoping for that."

One second passed.

Then the world exploded in light.

  
* * *

Dean trekked through the jungle, shirt drenched in his own sweat, starting to regret leaving behind the Impala even if the air conditioning wouldn't have started. The time in this place was abnormal; he'd watched a sunset lasting a minute through the canopy and then it had reversed until it was day again. He'd spotted a fanged monkey and a couple of reptilian birds staring at him from the leaves and even though they didn't attack he was still wary.

The thing he was looking for, when he reached it, turned out to be a very old and very rotten wooden post, planted in the middle of the road. It had three little wooden arrows sticking out of the top of it, similar to the ones you got at corners of roads.

 _Dean,_  one read, pointing back where he'd come from.

 _Car,_  another, at about the same angle.

And the last one…

Dean reached out and touched his brother's name, and something like a spark jumped at him. He flinched at the static shock and whipped his hand away, but whatever had just happened was too late to stop. It didn't repeat when he placed his hand on the signpost again.

Some kind of tracking spell, alerting someone else to his presence here? Dean didn't want to find out.

He walked around it and kept going, but was stopped by a creaking noise behind him. Turning around, he saw the signpost again, only now it was in a different position. His arrow was once again pointing straight at him.

With caution, Dean moved closer again and then stepped to the side, waiting. The arrow didn't move. It stayed as still as it should. But when he tried closing his eyes, even for a second, there was that groaning creak and he opened them to find it having fallen into position.

His eyes fell again on one of the other arrows.  _Sam._

It was indicating off to the right at almost a ninety degree angle, leaving the path and pointing beyond a patch of thick undergrowth some hundred feet away. The potential for becoming lost here was enormous. But who was he kidding - he was already lost. No big deal getting a little more so.

Then thunder boomed. A flash of forked lighting lit up the sky - straight ahead, right where Sam's arrow pointed. Not too far away, since the light and the sound had been simultaneous.

Dean started running.

  
* * *

_"Don't step out of the circle."_

These were the words Sam's own voice whispered to him in a blast of light and sound, before he was tossed around and thrown, ragdoll-like, into a hard-packed earth wall.

Raising his head, he realised the wall was actually the ground, and he was lying in the dirt about ten feet away from another body. Gabriel's.

Sam was dizzy, but he waited for the world to stop spinning before hauling himself to his feet and making his way over there.

"Hello?"

No response. Sam shook his shoulder - unconscious.

He took stock of the situation. He was alone: no Lucifer in his head, which was both a relief and unnerving. Clouds were roiling and a storm had swelled into being above him, complete with flashes of lightning that didn't ever seem to touch ground. He was standing in a chalky circle about fifty feet across, the lines inscribed into the earth with something more than humans possessed.

"It's terrifying, isn't it?"

Gabriel, although from his expression Sam doubted that was him, had woken up and was resting on his elbows, staring wide-eyed up at the turbulent sky.

"What's terrifying?"

"They're fighting. That's not a storm, you know."

As if to affirm, a rolling crackle of thunder burst forth. Sam took a closer look, and now that it was mentioned the clouds didn't look like clouds so much as smoky residues.

"Who are you?"

"Me? I'm just me. Not important. Gabriel has been planning this for a while now; he let me in on the secret. Don't step out of the circle."

Those words again. "Why?"

"Well, I won't stop you, but if you do you're fair game for being used in the fight. By either side. They agreed to leave us vessels behind since it's not a serious fight and they didn't want us damaged, but the neutral zone they decided on is only so big. At least they marked the boundary."

"Then what do we do?"

"We do nothing. We can't. We're insignificant ants next to them. Who do you think is going to win this fight?"

"You're pretty calm about this."

He shrugged. "I know who I'm betting on, though. But either way, this is a win-win for you, isn't it? Either we're out of your lives, or he is."

"I have no clue who's winning. How do you know?"

High above, what looked like a meteor shot down from the smoky clouds to crash-land in the forest.

"He's grounded."

But as soon as it had registered, there was another streak of light as something else took back off into the sky.

"Oh. I see. Sam, it won't take much longer. If you want some advice, remember what I said earlier."

"What?"

  
* * *

Dean had worried about getting lost. He shouldn't have. The thunder and lightning up ahead, centred on one black cloud in the sky, acted as a better compass than he could possibly have hoped.

He jogged on, stopping only at the foot of one of the trees to grab a stake-like stick with a point he hoped would be sharp enough. No more games. The Trickster had been playing them all along - with the stake the first time, with the Colt, and now reappearing again. Time to end this.

He ignored the fact that that Trickster having survived all these murder attempts meant he was unlikely to die now.

The sky lit up with flashes, and fire streaked across it. Whatever was happening, it was dangerous, and Sammy was there. Alone.

Dean hauled himself on, hoping that since the Mystery Spot his own blood would do the trick on the stake. Wherever the strange animals had been before, they had fled now.

But up ahead, peering through the tree trunks and undergrowth, he saw a clearing far away. A destination.

He just hoped his brother was okay.

  
* * *

Someone stepped out of the forest.

Sam knew this because he heard the snapping of twigs, then muffled cursing, and when he checked to see if it was really him his eyes confirmed that Dean had, in fact, found this place.

"Sam!"

"Dean, don't-" It was a deathtrap for him to be here.

"Step away from him, Sammy."

"What?"

That's when he noticed the sharpened stick Dean held, point dipped in blood. "You heard me. Let's get this over with." He gestured to Gabriel's vessel, a bead of red forming on the splintered tip of the wood.

"It's not what it looks like!" How could he explain this? Moreover, where were the two archangels? The sky had gone dark, like they were circling each other rather than attacking. "This guy's not the Trickster; you don't need to do this, Dean."

"He's a construct? Or you could be just saying that. Come on, tell me Sam, how do I know you're even real? I shouldn't trust anything you say."

Dean came closer and halted abruptly. From the way his eyes flicked in a circle, he'd noticed the chalk on the ground.

"Dean, get in here. It's not safe for you out there."

"What? No. You're asking me to step into some Hell-knows-what trap and I don't even know you're you. That's a big no-go. I'll tell you what - you grab the Trickster, haul him out here, I jab this through his heart and  _then_  we talk."

Gabriel's vessel sat back down and rummaged through his pockets.

"What do I do?" Sam asked him.

"Don't look at me, I have nothing to do with this. Do what you think is right. Ah, here we are." He had found a strip of black cloth and, without giving any reason why, started to tie it around his face until it would be impossible for him to see.

Sam stared at him incredulously, then made up his mind.

Leaving the other vessel on the ground, he started back towards where Dean was standing at the very edge of the chalk circle and examining it as if determining whether or not to cross.

"Look. I can leave." Sam took a deep breath and stepped over the line. "It's not a trap. Now get inside, it's a protection ward."

"You're really you?" There was a note of pleading in Dean's voice. Still, what a stupid question to ask.

" _Yes_ , now-" He cut off as all the air whooshed out of him - Dean had caught him in a tight hug.

"I thought I'd lost you, man."

"Dean, we don't have time for this!"

As if on cue, forked lightning split open the heavens and struck not ten feet away from them. Sparks charred the grass, and from the impact site someone stood up.

Too late. They had been found.

The person inside was clearly inhuman. They seemed to be made of threads of light, coalescing into a bright mass with some features of one, features that Sam recognised from himself, but their skin shone and bathed the area in new shadows.

"What the-"

"Hide your eyes. Now." Sam pleaded.

But Dean didn't. Instead, he met the gaze of the unearthly being right there, and held Sam even closer. He seemed to be unharmed.

Lucifer took a step closer.

_"Let him go."_

"Let's see. How about  _no_."

Oh god. Dean had no idea of how much trouble he was in right now.

" _You're not being fair to the spirit of the rules."_

Dean smirked. "Nobody said playing fair was part of the game, Luci."

It hit Sam then, and he started to struggle, but the hold he was in was far too strong - he was one human, he couldn't fight an archangel - and the blood-tipped stake had morphed into a silver blade currently being held at his neck.

_"If you harm him I will burn you."_

"And if you harm me I'll burn him. Don't we all just love these standoffs? Face it. I win this fight. Do you yield?"

There was hesitation, just the briefest moment, and then:

_"I yield. You win."_

"Good."

The not-Dean dropped the hold and stepped back, crossing the line of chalk and disappearing.

Lucifer approached, the grass under his feet flickering with sparks and charring to leave blackened footprints, and Sam took a step back in tandem.

_"Farewell."_

"What are you-"

Ice shot through his veins again. For all the burning, when he touched Sam it was always cold. There was a bright spot in the center of his vision, but Sam blinked it away and shivered, catching the eye of the only other person in the clearing who had pulled off the blindfold and pocketed it.

"Brilliant idea. Saves me having to rework melted eyeballs. Is he gone, Sam?"

"You just held a knife to my throat!"

"Is he  _gone_? Can you hear him saying anything, or is it silent in there?"

"…I can't hear him."

"Good." Gabriel teleported twenty feet because he apparently could not be bothered to walk, and gave him a once-over with a critical eye. "Physically you'll still be somewhat enhanced - he's already modified the body and I agree it's a waste to turn back what could only help you. If he  _ever_  shows up, call me. Just speak my name; I've set a tracker on you that pings when you do. I put them on everyone of importance: helps me stay one step ahead of the Host. I'll take everything from there."

"Gabriel?"

"Or Loki. Or Gwydion. Or Raven, Kokopelli, a thousand others. Oh? And don't die. That's a big issue, because the spell fails when a Reaper touches it. Can't leave them a direct line to me, since I don't trust them as far as I can throw them, and I can't throw them. Deal's off anyways if you do. Dean's on his way."

There was rustling in the trees, the snapping of twigs, and distinctly not muffled cursing. Sam watched his brother make it out into the clearing, holding - holding a wooden stake. With blood on it. Again.

"Sam, get away from him!"

"You two are so predictable, you know that?" Gabriel clicked his fingers and the stake disappeared from Dean's hand in a blast of splinters. "I'll keep this quick before the God Squad cottons on that you're here. Never much liked dealing with angels. Dean-o, Sammy here's got a bit of a problem but I'm sure you know that, right?"

"Stop it, Loki."

Gabriel's eyes flicked to Sam, surprised. "…Good answer there. But no, not helping your case. See, Dean, I've given things a patch up, but quite frankly I'm not hopeful it lasts more than a month. So it's up to you to find a more permanent solution, and I've got just the idea. There's a weapon that can control angels."

"There is?" Sam spun around and stared at him, aghast.

"Mhm. You have no idea how many rules I'm breaking by telling you this. Get that weapon, and you've got peace of mind forever. No more featherbrains skulking in your head. Not Ezekiel, not  _anyone_. Dad made it so only a human could wield it. Was meant to be a failsafe."

"Where is it?"

"It isn't anywhere. Hasn't ever existed. But let's just say the assembly instructions are inscribed on a teeny-weeny stone tablet that's cracked into pieces and scattered across places you'd never think to look. Good thing you two have enough mysterious benefactors with friends in low places - I'll take care of that side of things, and you focus on acquiring the ingredients."

"Why are you helping us?" Dean's hand, shot through with splinters, was curling and uncurling as if unconsciously searching for another weapon.

"Because you killed me. And I killed Sam. I'd say we're even, so this is a favour for a favour - I get you the recipe, so I don't have to get anywhere near the Heavenly Host, and you promise me one thing, Dean."

"I'm not dealing."

"Exactly. Don't deal. No matter what someone else offers, don't you  _dare_  accept it. I don't care if they could bring back your Dad. Or your Mom. You'll know who I mean when the time comes and you keep out of it."

"What? You don't think I learned my lesson on dealing after being  _tortured_  for thirty years?"

Gabriel shook his head. "No, you didn't. Angels and demons - you stay away from this fight, both of you. Let the two sides duke it out, skulk around, and ignore them. It shouldn't take much longer before the demons get forced back down into Hell and that's when the real trouble starts. If you don't have this ace in the hole by then, we're all space dust."

"And you couldn't just tell us this? Why set up a construct of some godforsaken dinosaur jungle in the middle of nowhere?"

"Ah, wouldn't be fun otherwise. I am a trickster, you know. But you're wrong about the construct; this is a real place."

"It isn't."

"No, it is. It used to be a backup, some place to keep all those life forms that never made the cut onto Earth. Now it's just a derelict playground used as a sandbox by anyone powerful enough to get here. And that's my time, ladies and gentlemen. I've got an appointment to keep with one of a murder and not much time to get back. Trickster out."

Then it was just the two of them, alone. Gabriel was gone.

Dean grimaced and ran his fingers over his splintered hand, wincing through gritted teeth. "What the Hell? Is he leaving us here? How are we supposed to-"

  
* * *

"get anywhere without-"

The sound of ringing bells drowned out his voice. Sam blinked and they were inside a church, the same one he recognised from his research into their hunt.

"I guess like that." he said, rather redundantly. The chimes stopped.

"What do we-" Dean was interrupted as the door burst open, revealing an out-of-breath vicar who cast them a wary look. "Uh, hello. I'm Mr. Richard and this is Mr. Stewart. I believe we were meeting for lunch?"

"Y-yes, I, of course, I just thought that the bells…"

"I think I've fixed them." Sam was over by the bell-pull clutching a scrap of paper in his hand. "Just some mechanical trouble, but they should work nicely now."

He screwed up the paper and threw it, with perfect aim, into the bin before striding confidently past Dean with a practised easy smile on his face.

"A note. From the Trickster. Whole hunt was a  _setup_." he whispered through gritted teeth.

"And you're okay?" Dean asked as they followed Mr. Vicar to wherever he was taking them - sure enough, the Impala was parked within eyeshot of the church doors. "Trickster had you on your own for a while."

"I'm fine. In fact, I'm better than fine, I'm amazing. But promise me you'll tell me something."

"What?"

"What does a dinosaur actually look like?"

Dean grinned. "Zombie chickens."

  
* * *

The insomnia hadn't gone away.

Sam took a shower, brushed his teeth, changed into boxers, changed his mind and had another shower because the first one hadn't gotten all the grime off, and generally made excuses until Dean gave up and switched off the light, warning him not to wake him up unless he was in imminent danger of death or he would  _become_  in imminent danger of death.

It was exactly what Sam had been hoping for. As soon as he heard the whistle breath that meant Dean was well and truly asleep, he pulled out his laptop and let its glare light the dingy room.

S-A-M-A-E-L, he typed in, and accessed the file.

The last few entries were what he'd been typing when Dean had pounced on him earlier, so they broke off in the middle of a sentence. He thought about how to finish it, but he couldn't.

Sam tapped the enter key three times and sat there, staring at the screen, considering how best he could word this.

 _"Dear diary,"_  he wrote, and deleted it.

 _"Today we had a run in with the Trickster and he"_  made it almost to a full sentence before it, too, met its demise at the hands of the delete key.

He settled on three words. He didn't think he'd be forgetting anything any time soon, which nullified the point he'd been using the file for - a record of his memories in case Lucifer wiped his mind again, backed up periodically off site with reminders of its existence sent weekly to his email inbox.

Giving up, he powered down and blinked in the dark. He should try to get at least four hours. Sam lay on his back, concentrating on nothing but empty darkness. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when concentration became sleep, but then again, nobody could.

_"I am alone."_


	12. Chapter 12

_Hello again Dean and Sam!_

_Word has reached me from a little raven on my shoulder that you two are searching for something. Something so important, I couldn't possibly say what it actually is for fear of the God Squad intercepting this little letter of mine._

_Thanks to a happy quirk of circumstance, I am in possession of the recipe for making what you seek, because currently it doesn't exist._

_I can't give you all the ingredients because then the angels could work out what it is you're searching for, but I'll tell them to you one at a time. The first one, and probably the safest one to look for in terms of not dying, is the bow of a Cupid._

_Happy Hunting!_

_~C_

_P.S. While the Colt does work on Cupids, killing them will cause the bow to disappear. And you can't steal one either. You have to be given one voluntarily, however you want to go about that. Personally I'd work out a way to trap one in human form and get out the torture equipment, since they're all a load of pussies - but then again, I am me._

“Raven? He's specifying a raven? Is that meant to be a clue?”

“Ravens… Norse mythology. I think he's referring to the Trickster.” Sam gave the letter another read. “Who has apparently blabbed our secret to our benevolent stalker. Is that a good thing or a bad thing, do you reckon?”

“Probably bad, but I can't bring myself to care. The question is whether or not C is telling us the truth.”

“He likely is. After all, C did give us the Colt. Hey, do you reckon…” Sam traced the ornate lettery signature with one hand, “C… Colt, so maybe it's a descendant?”

“Does the message sound like a human sent it? Nah, either that's a demon, one of Loki's pagan buddies, or some seriously messed-up hunter with a grudge against Valentine's day.”

“Good point. So we need to track down a Cupid.”

“Yeah.” Dean pulled out his cellphone. “I guess we should call Bobby and ask where the heck to start on this.”

“Bobby's not going to know.”

“Why?”

“Because a week ago he had no clue angels existed. Cupids are a type of angel, right? Phone Pierre, he's the expert on that stuff. I put his number into the contact lists in case we needed anti-angel help for anything.”

“Roger that, Captain Kirk.” Dean started scrolling through the list of names - for the solitary lifestyle they led, there sure were quite a lot on here - while Sam typed away at his laptop. “What are you doing there?”

“Looking up Norse gods with names beginning with C. This guy looks relatively friendly at the moment but it would be nice to have some blackmail material in case things go sour.”

“You do that.”

  
* * *

It turned out that, according to Pierre Sudre (who sounded pretty busy on the phone with some shouting and thumping in the background, though he assured them it was nothing), Cupids were in fact a subgroup of angel. They didn't require a vessel to manifest, so he hadn't had much personal contact with them, but they were common enough to have a lot of reliable lore if you knew how to sort the commercial lovely-dovely trash from the real stuff.

All of the Heavenly Host had special duties assigned to them, like the warriors who kept the demons at bay from Earth and the artisans who kept God and the angels as the good guys in pop culture to keep the juicy prayers flowing. Cupids weren't the lowest of the low, but they weren't far off either and tended to stick together as an isolated group.

Their job was to make people fall in love and thereby live happily ever after. To this effect, they carried special bows capable of shooting love arrows - the lore wasn't clear on this part, but it seemed they were spiritual rather than physical so a wound from one wouldn't send you to the ER. It would, however, cause you to fall in love with the first person you laid eyes upon: usually (but tragically not always) the person destined, via another loveshot, to fall hopelessly for you too.

There were a few isolated stories of rogue Cupids, who used their powers for mischief - it seemed from the mismatched reports that Cupids could vary the power of their shot from “Hey, maybe let's be friends!” to “You're my perfect soulmate! Let's commit suicide so we won't ever be apart.”, with consequences ranging from the hilarious to the unspeakably awful.

But compared to the rest of the Cupid lore those stories were rare, and it looked like on the whole they were a pretty nice bunch trying to spread joy and happiness and rainbows everywhere.

“It doesn't sound like they're as bad as all the other mosquitos we've been seeing.” The phone was on speaker, so Sam could hear Pierre's reply.

_“It's a matter of perspective. The angels have their own reason to keep the Cupids supplied with power, and they're working towards a purpose I'm sure you would be uncomfortable with.”_

“Oh yeah? What's their end goal?”

_“Selective breeding. We humans do it with our plants and our animals in captivity, and the angels do it with us. Though to be fair their impact is limited, since there are six billion of us and at most a few thousand of them.”_

“Ugh. Just when I thought we had a nice guy on our hands.”

_“Mostly they're concerned with the maintenance of the bloodlines required as vessels for the angels higher up in the command chain. Since a year in Heaven is more than a century down here, without the Cupids to ensure stability an angel may return to Earth after a comparatively short time and find that their means to manifest has become extinct or has diluted so much as to be next to useless.”_

“So there's your personal experience, then. The Sudre bloodline is a vessel bloodline, so you have your very own Cupid watching over you?”

_“No, unfortunately, though your search would go by much more easily if I did. Anael found his true vessel so the bloodline isn't needed anymore, and even if it was he left the Cupid's protection when he fell. But in terms of bloodlines, yours is far stronger.”_

“Ours? What, the Winchester bloodline? You're saying I'm a potential vessel as well as Sammy?”

_“Yes. You two were born of the mixing of two powerful archangel bloodlines. There are even songs written about you, if you can understand Enochian and listen carefully to the artisans' work, so it's highly likely that the match was arranged by Cupids, plural. At least two; one watching over each bloodline.”_

“So there's our starting point.” Sam said thoughtfully. “Now we just need to know signs to look out for and-”

“Woah, woah, hold up a minute. Archangel bloodline? Are you saying Zeke's one of the high-ups?”

_“No; from what the lore says, Ezekiel is a warrior angel rather than a commander. But with powerful blood such as yours comes the capability to host many other angels without being harmed.”_

“But just checking, Sam's only said yes to one of them, right? It doesn't open the door for Bob the angel to jump in.”

_“No. Only Ezekiel does not require consent to possess Sam.”_

“You two, could you please stop talking about me like I'm not here?” said Sam. “It's getting annoying, and we have an angel to go after. So I'd appreciate it if you kept the irrelevant chitchat to a minimum, and actually told us how to spot a Cupid.”

“Well someone's a bit irritated. Did I hit a nerve?”

“Dean…”

_“Sam's right. Cupids generally don't manifest unless something is threatening their charges, and most people under their protection have no idea they are being watched over. However, like all supernatural beings they cause an electrical disturbance, and being near one for a long time can sometimes make you sleepy. More generally, they are the cause of the 'love-at-first-sight' phenomenon, so if you find that this trait is running in a family it's a good sign that a Cupid is protecting and propagating that bloodline. Large family sizes are also a good indication, with at least three children per generation. The eldest as the potential vessel candidate, the middle as a means to carry on the family - angels aren't interested in parenthood - and the youngest as a backup in case something goes wrong.”_

“How do you know all this?”

_“Most of the vessels I've seen were the eldest child of a family of three or more. One of their parents was always the middle child, going back as many generations as it was possible for me to track. It allows me to make a genetic map of all the angel bloodlines I've heard of, since I can tell which parent carried the genes.”_

“The problem with that, though, is that there are only two of us. I mean,” Sam looked at Dean for confirmation, “We don't have any other siblings… do we?”

“Nope.”

_“Oh? That's… odd. Would there be any reason for that that you know of?”_

“What kind of reason?”

_“Medical problems… although those could be cured, I suppose. Exceptional circumstances that would have prevented the birth of another child.”_

“Mom died. When we were young. A demon killed her.”

 _“…I'm sorry. But yes, that would do it.”_  Now that Sam thought about it, there were all kinds of reasons why they wouldn't fit the mould. Chiefly among them the yellow-eyed demon's meddling in just about everything.  _“The Cupids wouldn't normally allow only two children of a bloodline, especially not where you were hunters and therefore in much more danger than a normal person. Certainly not from the Winchester bloodline, the most important one in existence. But if your mother was dead, then they would have had no other choice…”_

“What, exactly, is so special about our bloodline? I don't get it.”

“Uh, Dean, maybe we shouldn't-” Sam cut himself off and snapped his mouth shut. If Dean found out this way… it wouldn't count. Lucifer had only covered Sam himself telling him about it in the deal they'd made, so if it was Pierre that blabbed the truth, Lucifer wouldn't be able to do squat about it without breaking his word.

_“The Winchester bloodline is the most direct descendant bloodline of Jesus Christ through his cousin John the Baptist. Its members are potential vessels for the archangel Michael, the most powerful angel in all of Creation, said to be by some the immortal form of Jesus himself.”_

“Michael? I've heard that name. Before.” Dean got that irritated look on his face where he was trying to remember something but couldn't. “Somewhere…”

“It's quite a common name, Dean.” Dammit! If they got sidetracked now they wouldn't hit the topic of the other bloodline. The one that might clue his brother into what was really going on.

“Yeah, I know. Probably some hunter or someone we saved. So what about Mom, then? She had a bloodline?”

Yes!

_“The Campbells? The picture is much muddier. For one, it's not passed down the paternal line, so the name changes every few generations and it's harder to track.”_

“You said it was an archangel. Which one? Surely you can at least tell me who we need to watch out for. The only archangel I know is Gabriel from the stupid nativity play. …And now Michael, I guess.”

_“It's not Gabriel, that I can say. Gabriel is a special case; his vessels don't seem to come from any bloodline at all, and one turns up in my house every seven years on Christmas Eve. It's been that way since François nearly two hundred years ago. He's the only angel I know of that does that, actually making sure they get to aftercare afterwards.”_

“But if it isn't Gabriel, who is it?”

_“I don't know.”_

“How can you not know! How many archangels are there?”

_“Some say four, some say seven. The names don't even overlap between the two lists, and one of the archangels has had their name erased from the records. I think this unnamed archangel is the one whose bloodline moved through the Campbells, but I'm not sure. They have never taken a vessel, or at least not in the last thousand years. Very little is known about them.”_

“Are we talking about a not very well known angel, or one that was deliberately scrubbed out?”

_“There are burn marks on many of the texts where his name should be. Two years ago I had the chance to view a scroll for myself - I am an expert in the field - and confirmed that the marks were consistent with damage caused by holy fire. The Host of Heaven wishes that this archangel remain nameless, though I am not sure if it is for protection or for punishment.”_

…Well, that was just great. Lucifer had apparently not been lying when he said the other angels had stripped his name from him. It would be nice if, just once, events in the universe conspired to go his way instead of constantly screwing him over. Sam could have sworn he felt a bit of smugness from the entity right at the back of his mind, but to be honest that was probably his own imagination. Lucifer had promised no contact, so there would be no contact. One good thing about the Devil was that he always kept his promises.

“Sam? Earth to Sam? Stop looking so gloomy.” Dean's hand was waving in front of his face. Sam snapped out of his mood, telling himself it didn't matter if Dean never found out, as long as Lucifer didn't surface. He could just pretend nothing had happened.

“Yeah, whatever. Pierre? Thanks for the help. We really appreciate it.”

 _“I'm glad to be of service - ow!”_  There was a thud and a scuttling noise, then his voice came again:  _“Sorry about this. There's been a huge influx of demon vessels from Wyoming. I'm taking care of some of the children who lost their parents as well, since the foster system wouldn't believe their stories. Don't worry, kids will be rowdy sometimes.”_

“You sound busy. We should probably go hunt down one of our Cupids.”

 _“Call me again if you find out any new information on them - no, wait, I said the plastic one not the glass-”_  A smashing sound.  _“Oh dear. Goodbye!”_

“Bye.” Dean clicked the 'end call' button and gave Sam a shrug. “So where do we start on this? Yell out the window?”

  
* * *

They did, sadly enough. It didn't work.

Neither did drawing hearts on a piece of paper, posting an advert for a Cupid on a dating website, mixing up a love potion using ingredients bought from a sketchy shop downtown that was _probably_ owned by a witch, or gathering in one place all the ingredients needed to summon the mythical Aphrodite, although they had the common sense not to go through with the spell (On acquiring some of the more, ahem, unorthodox ingredients from the witch's shop, she had given them a look that quite clearly asked them what the hell they were doing, but sold the lizard semen to them anyway).

“You know, maybe we should just break one of our ribs again.” Sam mused. “From what I can make out the sigils are like mute buttons, so we'd have better luck without them active.”

“What, and alert every single angel of our intentions? Oh yeah, I'm sure that would go down brilliantly.”

But after a day's trying got them nowhere, both of them were seriously considering it.

“…Dean, you haven't ever seen a Cupid, have you?”

“No. But I don't know what they look like, so I could have I guess.”

“That's kind of weird, when you think about it. We're supposed to have two - at least - floating about in the background ready to rescue us from danger. But we've been in danger more times than we can count, and no sign of them. For heck's sake, we've both died. You think they might have shown up by now.”

“So? Maybe they were working behind the scenes.”

“I don't think so. We've quite clearly spent the last day trying to get their attention, to no effect. And then there's Castiel.”

“What about Castiel?”

“The angel they sent to  _guard you_. Dean, why would they do that if there were Cupids doing the job?”

“No idea. Maybe they thought they weren't strong enough.”

“Or maybe the Cupids aren't around any more.”

“What are you saying?” Dean paused in his cleaning up of the acid pink stain splashed all over the wall (love potion, don't ask). “They buggered off because we were too boring?”

“The opposite. You know how many things attacked us back when we were kids. I'm sure at least some of those things, the demons especially, were strong enough to kill a Cupid. Maybe they died protecting us.”

“Nah, I don't buy the self-sacrifice thing. Never forget, Sammy, that angels are at their core a bunch of douchebags. But I guess it's plausible that something saw them as a threat and took them out.”

“Whatever happened, I don't think we'll have much luck with what we're doing. We need to find another Cupid.”

They didn't have much luck with that either. The way the records were sorted made it pretty much impossible to search by family size or by whether two parents had had a happy marriage. They phoned Pierre again, but all the ex-vessels he directed them to were at least two day's drive east of here.

Sam offered to drive them, but Dean shrugged it off and said they'd be better off looking somewhere more local.

So that was how they ended up in Portland, Oregon, chasing down one of the psychics there that could possibly give them some hints. The first one they tried was a phony, a total and utter fraud. The second one was the real deal, but not strong enough to do what they were looking for. She directed them to the third one, an old man running a business out of his house, who was apparently a bit senile but the strongest mystic in the town.

  
* * *

They rang the doorbell and, when nobody answered, discovered the door was unlocked and they could walk right in. Inside was a waiting room with a table, some chairs, and a young woman sitting on one of them. She gave them a smile.

“Are you here to see him too? I'm getting my palm read.”

“And what a lovely palm it is too. I can do readings as well, and yours says “I'm beautiful.””

Sam rolled his eyes overdramatically. As soon as they met any pretty woman, Dean brought out the cheesy pickup lines in the hope of scoring a hit. Didn't he realise that he was scaring them away?

“Um… thanks, but I have a boyfriend. Are you two-”

“We're brothers.” Sam cut her off before she could say something that made it awkward. “I'm Sam Winchester and this is Dean. Ignore him; I don't even know why he feels the need to do that but he's not intimidating, really. He's a big softie at heart.”

“Oy!”

“Well, it's true.”

She giggled. “I'm Juliet Hawthorne. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too. Um, not to be rude or anything, but did you just walk in here off the street?” Sam asked. The psychic apparently didn't do public appointments, only seeing referrals from other psychics with actual  _problems_  and therefore willing to put up with his slightly… strange behaviour.

“Oh no, I was invited. A letter arrived on my doorstep telling me what would happen today. I didnt believe it at first, but… It said to come to this house for a palm reading at five p.m. Which is now, so I should probably…” She gestured to the door leading further into the house.

“Yes, of course. Hope it goes well!”

She left them to their bored silence, twiddling their thumbs while they mentally thought out what they needed to say. “I need you to direct me to a peaceful guardian of someone so I can capture them, torture them, and force them to surrender their weapon to me. Could you do that?” Yeah, it would go down so well. At least the woman who had referred them here had said she'd call ahead and explain the basics.

Ten minutes later Juliet came out with a slightly puzzled expression, gave them the go-ahead for entering (“He said he's expecting you two.”) and left. So they dutifully traipsed through the door, not quite sure what they'd find on the other side.

The psychic had one of those faces that just looked wrong, even if you couldn't point your finger on what it was. His teeth were crooked and jutting out too far, and his half-bald head was oddly swollen on one side.

“Sho you're the onesh Misty talked about. Shammy! How are you holding up? I shensh dishtresh all around you.” The lisp grated on their ears. “But I shouldn't talk about it, should I? You don't want your big brother to know.”

“I'm  _fine._ ” Sam said firmly, trying to shut down that train of conversation before Dean decided to play investigator. “We're looking for a family with a Cupid hanging around them. Can you help us?”

“Oh, I know! I'm sho helpful, I already helped!"

“How?” Dean interjected.

“And you… you didn't ashept it, though. Even if I went through all the trouble to get her here, you shtill couldn't she, could'ya?”

“What? …Juliet? Is that who you're referring to?”

“Yupedidoosh! I had to invite her all the way over and read her to check, but yesh she ish. Palm readings are icky, but if I had to…”

“So she's in a Cupided family?”

“Oh of coursh! She'll marry her Romeo and live happily evermore! Or will she?”

“Sam, go after her.” Dean motioned to the door. “Find out as much as you can so we can look her up online. I'll finish up here.” Sam nodded and slipped out into the waiting room, then out the front door.

  
* * *

Outside, there were a few cottonball clouds in the sky, but nothing that would prevent a person walking home on a fine autumn evening such as this. You couldn't track footprints on tarmac no matter how strong your eyesight was, but he spotted a flash of long blonde hair vanishing round a corner and ran over to check.

No, that was a guy. Was everyone in this town some sort of hippie, or what?

Luckily, Sam spotted Juliet through the window of an ice-cream parlour, buying a cone to eat on her way home. He waited outside, trying not to look too shifty in his loitering, and then made a beeline to intercept her as she left.

“Hello? Oh, Sam. Is your brother here? You must have not taken too long if you're out already.”

“Dean took the car, but I thought I would walk. It's such a nice evening, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.” She took a lick of her cone and stepped minisculey away from him - Sam noticed, and backed off two paces. “Not too dreadfully hot like it is in summer, and it's fine to eat ice cream if you bundle up warm.”

“So do you have any brothers or sisters? …Dean's my only one.” Her face noticeably fell.

“Erm, yes. Two.”

“Are you eldest, youngest, or sandwiched in the middle?”

“Youngest, actually. My two brothers are both older than me. Why do you ask?”

“Just out of curiosity. So are you going to tell me what the guy said about your palm?”

“That's - that's a bit of a personal question.” She drew her coat tighter around herself, closing off her body language.

“Oh, come on. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Oh, alright then. But you go first.” Bingo. That nearly always worked. Now Sam just needed to work out a horoscope for his life.

“He said I'd experienced a lot of suffering in the past, but now things would settle down a bit and start to look up.” There; maybe saying it might make it true. “Now yours.”

“That's odd. He said exactly the opposite for me. He said… he said I'd be involved in a tumultuous - that was the actual word he used - love affair lasting only a short time and ending in death. Like in the play, which is odd, since…” She trailed off and shook her head. “That's only if you believe such things, of course.”

“Do you?” It was always interesting to hear a layperson's view on the supernatural.

“I shouldn't. I know it's all smoke and mirrors, but… well, his letter mentioned things no person could have found out about me. And all my life, I've had this sense of, well, protection is probably the word. Sometimes, when I wish really hard, my wishes come true. It sounds funny, doesn't it?”

“It sounds nice. Like you have your own guardian angel watching over you.”

“Oh, I'm not Christian; I'm a Buddhist.” Well, that was a surprise, but then again this was Portland. “So it wouldn't be an angel, but I see your gist. My oldest brother's the devout Christian, but he-” Juliet cut herself off abruptly.

“He what?”

“He nothing. I probably shouldn't be talking to you.” She shifted uncomfortably and looked around. “You know; we wouldn't want to accidentally spark a tumultuous love affair." She tried to make it funny but the joke fell flat. "…My boyfriend is waiting for me, so I should get going.”

“Yeah, my house is through here.” Sam gestured to a random side-street he wasn't even sure lead anywhere. “What's your boyfriend's name, by the way?”

“It's Romeo. Romeo Mervon; it sounds so cliché, I know. Goodbye, I might see you around.”

“Bye!”

They parted ways and Sam doubled back to go fetch his brother.

  
* * *

"Romeo."

"Yeah. Romeo and Juliet." Sam shrugged.

"Well, at least we know one of the angels has a sense of humour. One Cupid reading trashy little romance novels-"

"Dean, uh, it's a play. Shakespeare? Seriously, did you never do it in English class?" Dean had missed a lot more school than Sam had, not paid attention in even more, but his knowledge of pop-culture usually masked the effects of a life spent on the road. Not this time, though.

"Well we can't all be goody two shoes Stanford graduates like you, Sammy. In my life, I've got better things to do than pore over centuries old literature. Unless that was the one with all the witch trials, in which I guess it's maybe relevant but still boringly dull."

"That's The Crucible. Not Shakespeare, not even in the same hemisphere. When this is over, I am renting the DVDs of all those plays and I swear I will make you watch them. Anyway, we have to figure out a plan of action. How do we capture this Cupid?"

There was a map of the city in front of them. They had, in a totally non-stalkerish way, plotted the locations of Juliet's house, the nursery she worked at, the ice cream parlour, and any and all other locations that may be of interest. Not much of a help but it made them both feel like something was being accomplished. Pretending to be FBI only worked when a crime had been committed, so they were stuck with all the boringly civilian methods of getting information.

Truth was, they had no weapon able to take down an angel barring the Colt, which would outright kill it or possibly not if the wound wouldn't ordinarily be fatal, but bullets were still scarce. Pierre had emailed them a digital copy of a ward that might work for tethering Cupids, but also might backfire and melt the hand of the person that drew it, with a note that it was untested because he valued his dexterity and should therefore only be used as a last resort.

"Stakeout?"

"It's our best bet. If that doesn't work, I say we kidnap her and threaten her with a knife until her guardian pops out of the blue."

"What do we do then, though?" Sam said. "You saw what happened back in Eugene. If we end up on the bad side of an angel we're toast. Literally."

"Of course we're not toast. You're toast. I'll be sailing smooth with half of Heaven ready to kill themselves rather than let Michael's precious vessel come to any harm." Dean grimaced and checked his watch. Almost noon. "You want lunch or are you still refusing to eat like a normal person?"

"I'm not hungry. I'll manage dinner fine though."

"I swear, if you end up anorexic after this I  _will_  tie you to a chair and shove a triple bacon cheeseburger down your throat. We've got the afternoon free, so do we want to head around the house and see who's home?"

"Sounds fine to me."

Nobody was home when they got there, and her job didn't finish until four, so they took the opportunity to scout out the house. Or, well, flat. It was pretty small, with just one bedroom and a cramped feel worse than they got from some of the motels.

Dean held up the unopened box of condoms on the dresser and wolf-whistled. "Looks like someone's anticipating scoring tonight."

"Put those back! We're not here to muck about, we're trying to find the Cupid. Unless you think you can magically trap angels by throwing Durex at them."

"There's nothing here of any use." He put the box back in the exact position it had been in before. "It has to be following the person, not their house. We need to talk to her again. Maybe ask if she's noticed anything unusual."

"She's on a date after work. She's prepaid for two cinema tickets and the film doesn't finish unil eight-thirty."

"Sam, you are scarily obsessive with your tracking. Remind me to never get on your bad side. So, are you saying we should leave it until tomorrow?"

"No, I say we wait for the lovely couple to get home, hope the Cupid shows up to watch how lovely-dovely they are, and convince it to give us its bow. So you'd better brush up on your manners, Dean, and keep the anti-angel thoughts buried. It was… mentioned in some lore, I think, that they can read minds. Or surface thoughts at least."

"Anti-angel thoughts?  _Me?_ " Dean's face was the perfect picture of incredulous innocence. "Not a chance."

  
* * *

The sunsets had been spectacular for the whole month now. So very red, the air thick with ash from that volcano in Iceland that erupted last week, or the one in Japan two days before that, or any of the numerous others that were acting up all of a sudden. None of the scientists they roped onto the news programs could explain the sudden shift in geological activity. Sam tried not to think about it.

Half an hour ago, a man and a woman had stumbled, looking a little tipsy and distinctly cuddleful, into the apartment on the first floor. The curtains had been drawn, but the EMF showed nothing so far. Angels brought down the power with the magnetic fields they generated, so if the Cupid was about it should register as something.

Sam, again, tried not to think about the way the EMF went all jittery when Dean gave it to him to hold for a bit while getting a water bottle out for a drink. It was the only sign he'd had in a week or so that they weren't  _ever_  alone. If Dean picked up that anything was wrong, it didn't show, because he was getting more bored by the minute.

Dean yawned. “Man, how long are we going to stand here? This is going nowhere.”

“No. Listen.” The wind was picking up. The chimes hung above the doorway began to jingle. “I think… I think it’s here. The Cupid.”

Sam stepped closer to the door and, ever so quietly, began to pick the lock. When he next pushed it swung inwards with barely a sound.

“Okay, now let’s do something to attract its attention.”

They could hear, in the bedroom not far away, the soft giggles and creaking sounds that meant the date had gone pretty well. Dean was listening gleefully.

“Be a bit more mature about this would you?”

“Sammy, some day you’ll learn to live and then realise you’ve missed out on all the fun stuff. Alright, I say we crash the party. Bursting in on Juliet with a couple of knives out should do the trick.”

“And if the Cupid doesn’t show up?”

“Then we get our names back on the most wanted list. Come on, we’ve discussed this. Follow me.”

They tiptoed up to the bedroom door. Inside were the unmistakable sounds of two people… having sex.

“Why has the Cupid not noticed us?” Sam breathed. “Surely it’s paying at least a little attention to its surroundings.”

“Maybe it’s enjoying the show. Come on, either you go in first or I do, and I don’t think you want me in there alone. Might just join in the fun.”

“Eww… Dean.” Sam took hold of the doorknob and gently clicked the handle so it was ready to slam open at the slightest pressure. "It just doesn't feel right, that's all."

That's when Dean pushed him, and he half-stumbled into a room occupied by two deer-in-headlights lovers.

  
* * *

The horrendously awkward silence lasted about two seconds. Then Romeo sceamed.

It was a pretty high, girlish scream; completely unfit for a man and if any of his friends had been there they wouldn't have stopped teasing him about it for at least a couple of decades. He grabbed a pillow to cover himself. Juliet just stared, unblinkingly, mouth dropping open in shocked surprise.

"What are you-" He began, but she cut him off.

"Sam?" Something was wrong about the way she said that. It was too adoring to be directed at someone who had just broken into her house. Her eyes still hadn't blinked.

Romeo turned to her. "You- you know this man?" He was quite clearly at a loss for what to say or do.

Dean, meanwhile, had become fed up with waiting behind Sam and slipped through the doorway, taking in the scene.

"Sam?" Juliet's tone of voice was the exact same as it had been before. Hopeful. "Sam, you're here? I- I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for you to see this!" Now, finally, the terror showed up. But it didn't seem to be directed at him.

"Could someone tell me exactly what is going on here?!" Romeo, having regained some sense of composure, tried to boom. His voice wobbled too much for it to be threatening. "Julie, who are these men? Your brothers?"

Why wasn't the Cupid showing? Did they need to get the guns out after all?

"Um, I'm Sam." Sam offered helpfully. "And this is Dean. We're-"

"He's my love! We met yesterday and we're madly, gleefully," she giggled, "In love. Sam, I swear this guy," she gestured to her bewildered and now angry partner, "means nothing, I'll break up with him right now, please…"

Dean turned to Sam. "Dude, you never told me you-"

"I didn't." Sam whispered. "Something's wrong."

"I… Julie?" You could see the emotions warring on Romeo's face; anger and fear and the beginnings of heartbreak. "Julie, you're  _cheating_  on me?"

"Yep!" Her eyes were gleaming happily - she wasn't bothered that the person she'd been so attracted to was going through a crisis, and something was horribly wrong about this. "But don't worry. I never liked you much, so it doesn't count. Sam's the only one for me." She sighed, dreamily.

Romeo reached down, grabbed his boxers from the floor, pulled them on, scooped up the rest of his clothes, and pushed past Sam to run out of the door. He didn't say anything else, and it was obvious he was trying hard not to cry. Juliet didn't even watch him go, only getting a scandalised look on her face when he knocked into the object of her present affection.

"Come on, Sam, come in. Is this your brother? He looks handsome. He reminds me of you."

"Uh, Juliet…"

"Look." Dean strode up to her and clicked a hand in front of her face. "Snap out of it, okay? You're hallucinating, I don't know, or something nasty got to you. You seriously think Sammy's handsome? Look at that beanpole. Ugly as can be."

He'd said it in a joking tone, but there was a serious undercurrent of concern there.

"I- Sam, your brother's not being nice to me. Can you make him go outside? I want this to be a special night together. Just us." She blinked. "Romantic."

"Dean, could I talk to you for a second?" Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam clarified. "Out in the hallway."

"Sure, Sammy."

"Wait! Sam, don't go!"

"Juliet, I'll just be… a few minutes. So, uh, wait there for me and don't… listen in. It's a brother thing and I don't want it ruining our relationship, okay?"

"Okay." Juliet settled down in the bed, still far more content than anyone in her situation had any right to be. "I'm a bit sleepy, so wake me up when you're done? I don't want to miss out on anything."

They shut the door behind them, and Sam gave Dean his best deer-in-headlights expression.

"What do we do?!"

"I don't know!" Dean whispered frantically back. "The Cupid did something! It has to be that!"

Unnoticed by either of them, a soft breeze picked up around their feet as if the air was disturbed by nonexistent footsteps.

"How do we reverse it?"

"Wait for it to wear off? Get the Hell out of town? That's our best option; I don't see any other way that we can-"

That's when a fist materialised from thin air and punched Dean hard in the nose.

  
* * *

"You idiot!"

It wasn't a shout, more of an agonised screech, and it came from the person - no, thing - that was attached to the fist that had just slogged Dean in the face.

"Why? Why!" It punched him again, this time on the cheekbone, and Dean's head snapped to the side as blood began to trickle out of his nose. "Why did you have to  _ruin_  everything?!"

Sam tried to grab it, restrain it, but it snapped out of his hold with inhuman strength. It went for another blow, on the other cheek, but Dean had recovered from the surprise ambush and dodged. He countered with an uppercut of his own, landing a hit squarely on its solar plexus (it was… naked?) and then moaning in pain as an audible crunching sound echoed from his hand.

"Woah, woah, stop!" Sam wedged himself in between his brother and the Cupid, because it had to be the Cupid, and successfully managed to keep them apart. Dean was left to nurse his injured hand and wipe blood off his top lip, shooting  _it_   with a murderous glare. "No fighting. We're not enemies here."

"That's easy for you to say!" It threw its arms up in exasperation and shot its own death stare straight back over Sam's shoulder. Irises were not naturally that colour of purple. "Do you have any idea what he's gone and done? He screwed up something I can't fix!"

"Be?  _I_ scwewed ub somefing?  _You_  just messhed ub her mbind! And by nose!"

"I was doing my job just fine until you had to go be an  _idiot_  and shove him in there and interrupt the most important part of everything! Ugh. Why."

Sam was becoming more and more certain that this was some crazy dream, a monster hunt devolving into a soap opera, or Gabriel trapping them in la-la land for his own amusement again. "Calm down. Dean, don't try to hit it… uh, him… or, actually, are you a guy or a girl?"

It was naked, but as far as he could tell there was no junk down there. Not like he was  _looking_.

"I'm  _not_. I'm an angel, not a human. I don't have a gender, as I'm sure you very well know, so stop with the reconciliation stuff and get out of the way. I want to hit something."

"Whabt's wib bthe no cwothes?" Dean, however, seemed less than enthusiastic at the prospect of another fight where he would be banging his head against the angelic equivalent of a brick wall, if that crunch had been anything to go by. He was sticking to verbal insults. "You forbet your bants?"

"Well I wasn't exactly aware I would need to manifest today and head off some troublemakers, was I? It's not like I carry around a full set everywhere I go!" It was calming down, those unnatural eyes rolling at the ceiling and folding its arms in a huff. "Dad I see why everyone finds you two so annoying. You screw up everything."

"You know about us?"

"'Course I do. Sam and Dean Winchester. Real celebs upstairs. Especially you," It pointed at Dean with nails Sam noticed were long and manicured, indicating possibly a more feminine appearance, "Though to be frank I don't give a damn about Michael or any of the others. Archangels and Seraphim are a bunch of stick-up-the-ass weirdos." It (she?) leaned forward to touch Dean's forehead and suddenly the injury was healed.

"You know what, I think we may have something in common." Dean flicked his nose a couple of times and sniffed experimentally. "I'm starting to like Cupids."

"Yeah, well I don't hate you any less. Just wouldn't want management hauling me off to boot camp for maiming their precious super-vessel. Trust me, the like is  _not_  mutual."

"We're, uh, looking for a Cupid's bow." Sam cut in.

"Yeah, I get that. So?"

"You have one."

"Oh,  _great_  observation. I'm a Cupid. Duh. In fact, I just had it out before you marched in there and mucked up poor Juliet's entire life by interrupting the shot."

"We did what?"

The Cupid flicked its eyes over to Dean. "Yeah, you didn't know? Arrows from a Cupid's bow aren't reversible. It's pretty obvious from the lore. 'Till death do us part, and all. That poor woman in there is going to be desperately in love with Sam all her life now, she just broke up with the guy of her dreams I spent years picking out for her, and the blame rests squarely on  _your_  shoulders."

"It's your fault for letting us get anywhere near the place when you're doing your shazam thing."

"What, so I'm supposed to keep an eye on the other side of the door while aiming and forging a personalised arrow all at once? That's not how it works. Generally, when your target is in the privacy of their own home and the front door is  _locked_  you just assume these things. Stupid, stupid-" It banged its fist on the wall, made tiny cracks in the plaster, and then smoothed them over back to how they had been.

"Won't Juliet hear that?"

"She's sleeping, as per me not wanting to break her heart any more than it's already been snapped today. Sam, I appreciate the concern and all, but I'm not sure you get what your brother just did by pushing you into that room. That's years of my work and the rest of her life down the drain in three seconds of immaturity. I can't deal with this right now. You know what?" It waved a hand. "Scram. Out of here. I have the remains of a romance to salvage. But you two come back tomorrow or I will appear in your motel room and drag you back by the ears."

"Wait, you're making us leave?" Dean planted his feet firmly apart. "We're not leaving unless you give us your bow. We need it."

It laughed, a sarcastic laugh. "Oh wow. Wow. You think you can mess things up as badly as you've done and then ask for my hotline to magic power, capable of controlling human emotions, and expect me to hand it over? Get real. You owe me so much right now, you're lucky you're under Seraphim protection or I'd shoot you and have you toady to me for a few centuries to make up for it."

"But-"

"Out." It disappeared, and then they heard the sound of something being dragged across the other side of the door. Sure enough, when they tried the handle it would no longer open.

Dean shrugged at Sam. Sam returned the gesture, and they both went back to the motel to grab the half a night left of sleep.

  
* * *

Dean was slapped awake at 8 a.m. by a very irate Cupid now wearing clothes to see Sam already with a resigned expression and a half-forming hand mark already on his face.

"Up! It got light  _ages_  ago; hurry on or I'll kick you in the balls and dislocate your shoulder dragging you over there!"

Dean yawned, stretched, rubbed his bleary eyes, and generally took his sweet time. He knew a bluff when he heard one.

At 9 a.m., they were back in Juliet's house. She was, surprisingly, still asleep.

"Huh." Dean went over and waved a hand in front of her face. Then he gently tapped her on the shoulder. A harder tap. No response. Drugged somehow? He reached out to pull down her eyelid-

-And his arm was immobilised by the Cupid materialising to grab it in a painfully tight hold. "No. You stay away from her. If you even think about harming her I will break your arm into tiny pieces." The tone was deadly. Dean did  _not_ think it was a bluff.

"Why did you bring us here, then?" He gently tugged back on his arm and the Cupid let go.

"That's for Sam. I wanted to show him something. You and me, mister, are having a one-on-one chat about why you shouldn't go up to unconscious girls and start touching them."

"…Really? Seriously?" Dean stared incredulously as he realised why it was so angry. "I was checking if she was okay! I get enough at the bar without stooping so low."

"Excuse me for being cautious. Now come with me." It grabbed hold of his arm again - Dean would try to swat it off but its body had the resistance of concrete. He let himself be frogmarched out of the room.

Sam was left alone with Juliet as the door swung shut, and it was at that exact moment that she began to stir. Her sleep had been under the Cupid's control; of course everything would be timed perfectly.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Sam?" she asked.

"…Yes." He didn't know what he was supposed to do, since they were trying to win favour with the Cupid but it hadn't given instructions. He considered yelling for it but changed his mind. "Hey, Juliet. I'm here."

"Sam…" Her eyes closed in bliss and she reached out a hand. Sam took it and let himself be pulled down to sit on the bed next to her. "I had such a terrible dream. I thought you'd left me, and all the colour left everything until it was all grey. But then I woke up, and you were there, and I…" She clasped Sam's hand like it was a precious treasure. "Thank you."

Where was the woman who'd been so independent, who had waved goodbye without a second thought, who already had a boyfriend? That arrow had messed her up. He shifted and drew back.

"Sam?" Now there was anxiety mixed in there. "Please don't go."

"I'm sorry, I have to-"

"Please. Stay with me. I don't think I can-" Juliet broke off with a gulping sob. "I can't live like this any more, not without you!"

She threw her face into the pillow and shook quietly.

"Hey, it's not that bad, right? You have a job and a house and a car. Your parents have set you up for life. You don't need me."

"Yes I do." she mumbled into the pillow.

"Why?"

"Because I feel… like my heart would burst if you ever went away. Please, Sam, you have to stay."

Dean would hate this. Dean would utterly despise the talking about feelings aspect of this heart-to-heart, and it was probably for the best he was with the Cupid instead - Sam listened, and he could barely hear shouting in another room in the house.

"What if I went away, but I promised I'd come back?"

"Then I'd wait for you. Forever. And if you didn't come back I'd find you and make sure you were okay."

"So if I…" Sam shifted his weight to get off the bed, but Juliet would not let go of his arm.

"Why go? Let's just stay here."

"We need to get up. I have things to do."

"Then I'm coming with you." She crawlede out of the bed after him. Sam cleared his throat.

"Uh, you're still naked."

She looked down at herself and smiled. "I don't mind. It's only you, right?"

"Actually, my brother's out in the hall, so…"

Juliet jumped and ran for the wardrobe, closing the doors behind her before poking her head out. "He's not coming in, is he?"

"I don't think so. Why don't you stay in bed for a bit longer? You look tired. Catch up on some sleep while I talk with Dean. I'll still be around when you wake up again."

"But I-"

"Do it for me?"

"Okay." She went back to the bed and wrapped the covers around herself like a giant blanket. "For you, Sam. But come back soon."

He made sure that the door opened and shut quietly, so as not to disturb her.

  
* * *

"So I think we got off to a wrong start," the Cupid said to them seated around the table at the kitchen, "but I'm willing to leave that be and try again. I'm Robin."

It - no, she?, Sam couldn't keep dehumanising her now she had a name - stuck out a hand for Sam to shake. She did it awkwardly, like she wasn't sure of how to go about such a human custom. He shook it, and Dean then did the same.

"Robin doesn't sound that angelic, for a name."

"Oh, I know. Actually, Robin's not my true name but that's unpronounceable in speech form so I tend not to use it when interacting with humans." She whistled a quick tune. "That's it. I named myself Robin because it's quite like the sound a robin makes. You'll see a lot of angels naming themselves after birds for that reason, and because of the wing thing."

"None of them we've seen so far."

She laughed. "Oh, not the Seraphim. They like fancy Hebrew names to show how  _dedicated_  they are. Especially when their real name is something ridiculous like a day of the week and not warrior-like at all. Exhibit A - Castiel."

"You know about Castiel?"

"Didn't I already say you two were famous?" Robin said. "Let me repeat that: you two are big, big deals upstairs. Dean especially. Castiel is now famous by proxy."

"Fine." Dean folded his arms. "So what are we going to do now?"

"I have a proposition for you. Not you, Dean," Robin turned to Sam, "but you. You're the only one who gets a say in whether or not this happens."

"This means it's not something I'm going to like." Dean said flatly. Robin nodded. "Great. Spill."

"I'll give you my bow. You can use it for whatever evil purposes you like, because it can alter people's souls, and don't think I don't know what the potential applications of that are. That's precisely why we're not allowed to give them up without falling. Anyway, Dean can leave with the bow."

"And me?" Sam asked, because there was no way he hadn't picked up on the implication there.

"You stay. With me, with Juliet, right here in this town. You spend the rest of your life as a happily married couple. No takebacks. In fact, just to make sure you don't back out I'll say that if you agree, the last thing I'll do with the bow will be to shoot  _you_  with it, and then hand it over to your brother. That's my offer."

"What? Sammy, don't-"

""Didn't I say you stay out of this, Dean Winchester? This is Sam's choice."

"I… I'm going to have to think about it." Sam admitted. One of the people facing him beamed, the other not so much.

"That's alright. Take as much time as you need."

"This is a load of bullshit. It's Sam's life we're talking about here! Why should he give that up for some stupid little weapon?"

"Oh, you think my bow is  _stupid_ , do you?" Robin rounded on Dean. They thrust out their hand and he saw a tattoo swim into being. "This is a weapon of mass destruction! The Seraphim have their fancy blades, and the reapers have their knives, but killing is nothing compared to mind control. Which is what this is - the power to gain the absolute allegiance of anyone you ever meet, just by eye contact. The last time a Cupid's bow got into humanity's hands, we ended up with nearly a thousand people committing suicide just because he told them to! The deal is not unfair on Sam - this weapon is worth far more than one human life. It's the other way around. These terms are so favourable to you, and I'm only offering them because guess what? I'm desperate. So shut up about this being unfair."

"Dean, maybe you should-"

"Leave? Hey, that's a great idea! Get. Out."

Dean took the hint and got up. "Fine. But Sam's not going ahead without at least talking to me first."

"He's his own person, not your possession. Now scarper." Robin watched him close the door, then yelled after him "And don't you dare go near Juliet!"

"You don't have to be so hard on him." Sam said. "He's my brother, after all. He's looking out for me."

Robin sighed. "Yeah, I know. It's just his  _face_. It gives me the creeps, looking into those eyes."

"Why?"

"Because all the angels know his face. Like all the demons know yours. And I've probably said too much, since divulging that information is worth more than my paycheck."

"You have a paycheck?"

"What did you think Grace was? We don't get it from nowhere, you know. We don't eat. Have you decided?"

"I'm going to need more time. A lot more time."

"Of course you are. But let me outline the advantages to you briefly."

Robin held out one hand. Five fingers.

"First, there's the fact that Dean gets the bow. And I'm not sure what you want it for, but it's not something you could persuade a Cupid to give up without a great reason. This is maybe the only way you can get your hands on one.

"Two, there's protection. If you're carrying on a bloodline, you have the angels watching over you, and no monster would dare jump you in your sleep. Which leads me to three: you can give up hunting."

"Why would I want to do that?" Sam asked.

"Because I know you do. I know you think about it, look around, want to just settle somewhere and go back to a normal lifestyle. Become a lawyer. Well? This is your out. One thing the angels want is for you to be off the scene. Preferably in a dead way, but since that's not possible the next best thing is giving up hunting."

"They want me dead?"

"Oh, Sam, the angels have wanted you dead since six months after you were born. Circumstances intervened. But I have metaphorical as well as literal friends in high places. We're in with world government. We're in with every church and every temple that worships something Abrahamic. Getting you slipped back into Stanford with enough money to set you up for life would be nothing to our resources."

"How do you know so much about me?" He hadn't ever mentioned Stanford, not recently, not in nearly a year. It was a black mark they didn't talk about.

"You're famous. You've literally got a gospel being written about you as we speak, Sam. But that was number four, too - a cushy life in suburbia. Number five is Juliet herself. Without you, she'll commit suicide in… roughly a year. Usually less, for arrows as strong as what I shot. By staying, you get to save a life, and you get to be happy with her."

"What?"

"It's either that, or she'll devote her life to searching for you. She won't stop, ever. One of the two." Robin tapped her fingers on the table. "Usually the former. That's one of the reasons why we wait until people are already dating to shoot the arrows. A soul bond is not a trivial thing, and angels require consent. Presumed consent, in our case, is enough. But if we break that, we're outcast. So it's your decision, but you have to decide."

She blinked, then flipped her head around, scrutinising the wall. "Wait, is- sorry. I thought I saw- no, I have to check something. Goodbye, I'll see you soon."

And then she was gone, and Sam was alone.

  
* * *

"No. Big final no, don't you dare consider it."

"But-"

"No, Sammy! The  _reason_  we need the bow is so we can get you free of all the angel stuff. I am not tying you up in more!"

"It's my choice, Dean."

"Don't tell me you want to do this?"

"I don't."

"They why are you considering it?"

Sam looked down at the ground by his feet. "Because I can save someone, that's why."

"Yeah, Juliet's an innocent, and that's terrible, but you have to understand - it's not your fault she's like that. It's all on the Cupid. It's just trying to guilt you into fixing its mistakes."

"I know."

"Then why? I know I sound heartless, Sammy, but honestly? She's collateral. We get people like her dying around us all the time. It's part of the business. I don't get why you're so cut up about it you're willing to throw away your whole life."

"I just… I'm not sure."

"Wait…" Sam felt Dean's eyes on him. Scrutinising. Maybe he'd worked it out. "Unless it's not that. It's not that, is it?"

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't! You want out, don't you?"

He'd worked it out.

Sam sighed. "Yes. Yes I want out. I just want all of this to stop, and let me live a normal life. Dean, I'm not cut out for hunting like you are. You know that. I was thinking about quitting anyway."

"You and me save people, Sammy."

"No, Dean.  _You_  save people. I just screw up things for you. The reason you went to Hell was because I was too stupid to look behind me, so that's my fault."

"Dude, you busted me out. I think we can call it even."

"But that's only because I made a deal with-!" Sam cut himself off. "With an angel. Who's on the run from Heaven. Which we're still clearing up from the repercussions of."

"Hey, now, Zeke sounded like a pretty nice angel if you ask me. It's not like the guys he's running from are the good guys. Enemy of my enemy, and all."

" _Don't_ ," Sam's tone was dark, "Call him anything but evil."

"Sheesh, whatever you want." Dean held up his hands in mock surrender. "It was your brain he was knocking around in, not mine. I guess I wouldn't know. But the point is, you're selling yourself short."

"Dean, think about everything we've ever done. You're the one who did it. You killed Yellow-Eyes. Most of the hunts we're on, it's you doing all the work. I'm not much more than a burden: in fact? I'm worse."

"You're not."

"I'm literally the antichrist."

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not."

"Oh, really?" Dean gave Sam his best incredulous look. "Because that went poof when Yellow-Eyes did, if you ask me. Unless you know something I'm not aware of?"

"…No." Sam looked away again.

"See, that's what I thought. Which means you're moping over nothing. So come with me and go tell that Cupid to piss off with its stupid deal."

"No. Dean, it's my choice. And I know what I'm choosing."

Sam took in a deep breath. Steadying himself.

"We're in a lull. Yellow-Eyes isn't alive, no deal's hanging over our heads, and there's nothing urgent. Just the usual hunts. Even all the demons that are up on earth are getting exterminated now the angels are here. This is the perfect time for me to get out."

"No."

"Yes. So I'm dropping this thing and walking away. But I want you to promise me one thing: once you've got the bow, get the rest of the stuff and then come back and use it on me. So no angel can possess me. Not Ezekiel. Not  _anyone_. Then I'll go live a normal life, die old, and arrange so my body is salted and burned at my funeral. That is how this is going to go."

"It's not."

"Why not?"

"Because if you do that, Sammy, I swear: I will not forgive you."

"So?" He could deal with having Dean angry with him. It never lasted anyways.

"So, I'll kill myself."

"…What?"

Dean smirked. Why was he smirking? "You hear me. I'll kill myself. Oh, not on purpose, but you know how dangerous solo hunts are. Without you there, I'm sure to slip up sometime. So you can live your picket fence life and die at ninety, but that's more than half a century after I kick the bucket."

"That's not true." But it was. Sam knew from his own experiences hunting alone: one wrong move, and there was nobody to rescue you. Monster meat, or worse. The thought of losing Dean felt, as always, like a physical ache in his chest.

"It's true. You know it. But I know exactly what you'll do as soon as I'm dead. And I won't let that happen. I don't care what you think about anything: I'm not letting you sell your soul. Never. Which means you're staying with me, and you go up to that Cupid and tell it the deal is  _off._ You understand me?"

There was something of John in that tone; a command. Sam couldn't help but agree.

"Good. Glad you've come around." Dean's face lost its hard look. He was back to the normal joking grin. "So let's go break some hearts, Sammy."

  
* * *

Robin was waiting for Sam at the bottom of the driveway to Juliet's home, perched on the edge of the brick wall and staring unblinkingly at him as he approached on foot. It reminded Sam that, however human she might appear at first, something was always a little off. Like the supernatural creatures they hunted, the shapeshifters or demons that couldn't quite pass.

"I take it you've decided?" She asked when Sam was only five feet away.

"I have."

"Well, what's it going to be? You don't look happy with whatever decision you've made."

"We're turning down your offer."

Robin hopped off onto the sidewalk. "I know."

"You were listening to us?"

"No, I always knew. I never expected you to take me up on it, not with how you two are. Going through this would mean splitting you two up and the bond between you is too strong for that. Ah well, at least I tried."

"You seem a little…"

"Blase? Trust me, I'm not. I'm furious. With you, with Dean, with myself even. The one person I've sworn to protect has their life lying in shattered little pieces, but what can I do? Nothing. No point worrying."

"There has to be a way to break a Cupid's bond, though."

"Actually…" Robin looked both ways across the road, then leaned in close. "There is."

"What is it?"

"You kill both of the participants. Boom. Broken." She folded her arms and shook her head. "Sam, I'm not sure you get the point. These things are lifelong. 'Till death do us part, and all. There's no trick you can use to get out of one."

"What about only killing one of the two?"

"I can't believe you're asking that."

All around them, birds chirped and cars rumbled. The world carried on as usual, and inside the house next to them the lady whose fate they were discussing slept peacefully in a supernatural sleep.

"Yes. Killing one of them  _does_  break the bond. In this case, completely, since it hasn't been reciprocated. Juliet's bound to you but not the other way around, so if she dies it's gone. But I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Try, and I'll rip one of your arms off, tear each of the fingers away, and feed them one by one to a Wendigo while I make you watch. For starters."

"I meant the other way." Sam clarified. "Killing me. Would that break it?"

"What? Why?"

"Just curious."

Robin shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes not; usually not. It weakens it, but it's a huge trauma. Imagine you losing Dean. If you could move on, accept things the way they are, and stop grieving then yes, it could be broken. But it's not exactly the ethical thing to do if we mess up. Believe me, I've thought about it. The ability for the bond to break depends on the strength of the arrow shot, and the one I used was on the stronger side. Then, of course, there's the problem of killing you: I'm not suicidal enough to attempt that."

"Because of Dean?" She nodded.

"Because of Dean, and also because I don't want demons out for revenge. You're a big shot in Hell, and I'm not a Seraphim. I deal with love, not fighting."

"But if I did die, what would happen?"

"I don't get what you mean."

"Does the bond break automatically? If my heart stops? What about with an electrical shock?"

"Stop looking for loopholes. No, it doesn't break."

"Then when?"

"When you  _die_. When you're not breathing, and she's sobbing over your corpse, and the realization hits that there's no hope; you're not ever coming back. It's one of the graces that Heaven allows humans: the ability to find another after your partner has been taken from this world."

"So it's her belief, not anything physical."

"Yes. But don't think you can just have Dean phone up and deliver the bad news. Any doubt at all, the bond stays strong. Like you and Dean. He knew he could get you back with a deal, so that's what he did."

"That was different."

"How so?"

"For one, we're brothers. Second, no Cupids were involved there."

"Heavens, you're clueless." Robin rolled her eyes at the sky. "You have no idea about Emery and Roe, do you? I forgot."

"What?"

"All the Cupids know that particular sob story. You were right in the middle of it. Of course, you weren't aware."

"Who are Emery and Roe?"

"Your Cupids. Well, they  _were._  Now they're a cautionary tale on why we shouldn't disobey. Let me start at the beginning. You know what? You should come inside. I'm not having this discussion out here; someone could be listening."

Sam looked around. Apart from cars on a street not far away, there were no other people around. "It's fine."

 _"No._  There's a demon in this vicinity. I saw it earlier but it got away. It's not safe to talk about these things outside. Heaven prefers it if its failures don't go public, and I'm not rocking the boat. Too dangerous."

Sam followed her up to the door of the house, and he heard the lock click open a second before she grasped the handle and turned.

"After you." She held the door open for him and scanned the vicinity one last time before closing it behind them both.

"So tell me about these two. Emerald?"

"Emery. The Winchester one: he's John's. Roe was Mary's. I guess that means Roe liked you best, but really they were both assigned to watch over the both of you. High up in the ranks, given the most important assignment in their lives."

"What happened to them?"

"All in good time. First, though, did you ever wonder why, out of the six billion or however many - I forget, you spawn so fast - six billion odd people in the world, the overwhelming majority never see anything remotely paranormal?"

"Is it because Heaven wipes their minds?" At this point, Sam would not be in the least bit surprised. Robin scowled.

"No. Well, yes, but that's different. That's keeping the media unaware, and a completely different division of Heaven handles that. Not us. The reason why is simple: supernatural occurrences are rare. Very rare. Not as rare as you'd like, I bet, but there's maybe one or two violent ghosts in a good-sized town and a couple of witches who mostly keep to themselves. Vampires are almost extinct. Barring the recent demonic influx, which the Seraphim are dealing with as we speak, you'd be hard pressed to find any sizeable amount of creatures posing any threat. Most hide and survive, because being noticed means being hunted by your types."

"So?"

"So, you never wondered why John turned his back for five minutes and a shtriga showed up? Why you were constantly on the run from monsters back when you were kids?"

"Because that's what happens to hunters."

"No, it isn't. Hiding and surviving, remember? Monsters don't attack those who have a shot at fighting back. But your poor family had targets painted on the back of your heads. All of you. Do you know your kindergarten teacher was a demon?"

"My kindergarten teacher was a-"

"Others, as well. Loads of others. We're not sure exactly how many Azazel placed, and we didn't find them all."

"My kindergarten teacher was trying to kill me."

"No, she was trying to protect you. Everything else was trying to kill you, though, and I'm sure if she'd had a free shot at Dean she would have taken it. Emery made sure she never got one. You see, it went like this:

"Heaven needed Dean. They still do. Hell needed you. Again, they still do. The rest of the supernatural world was hell-bent on destroying the both of you. I'm not sure how much you know, but your destinies involve a lot of pain to a lot of creatures and they figured it was best to get rid of you early. Plus, Heaven would rest easier with you dead and Hell the same with Dean. You were caught in a war, and the only ones on your side were Emery and Roe. To everyone else this was a three-way chess game. So they tipped over the board."

"What did they do?"

"They're Cupids. What do you  _think_  they did?"

"No, that's not-"

"It is." Robin mimed drawing back a bowstring and letting it twang. "When Dean was about six, I believe. Both of you. You never wondered why you're so irrationally codependent on each other? It's not normal for brothers to be like that, not even with the screwed up childhood you had. There has to be an extra kick in there somewhere, and this was it."

Sam was beginning to feel sick. "But why-"

"Oh, it was a brilliant plan. Worked spectacularly. You see, now Dean never goes anywhere without you, and you the same without him. You're human shields for each other - stronger together than apart. More than that, though, it forced cooperation. Heaven and Hell, working together to keep you both safe from everything else out there. Damn did they hate it. But if you kicked the bucket, then Dean would do something stupid like sell his soul to get you back, and Heaven didn't want that happening to their precious little vessel. Of course, _that_ was before it became apparent that John wasn't breaking and they needed a plan B."

"What does Dad have to do with this?"

"Nothing. Unrelated topic. But the point was, Emery and Roe disobeyed orders. More than that, they made Heaven and Hell look like fools. So they fall. Heaven cuts them loose and they land in a ditch somewhere. Breaks their bows and burns them in holy fire. Then, of course, Hell shows up for revenge too."

"But they helped us. Why did they have to fall?"

"Because that's how Heaven works. You disobey orders, there's no second chances, you're ditched before you have time to spread word of your mutiny through the ranks. But what Hell did to them was worse. Nobody's sure what happened, but they weren't seen again. Ever. There are stories, though."

"What do they say?"

"Deep in the bowels of the Pit, there's a place where your worst nightmares take form and devour you. Legend has it they were dragged there and chained to the wall, driven mad by terrors only they could see until their bodies were just dried-out husks with not an inch of mind left to comprehend. Of course, that's what they say to keep us in line - but I'm sure there's truth in there somewhere."

"Damn." This had gotten dark, fast. Sam had a twisted knot beginning to develop in his gut. "But I've seen Dean die. …Multiple times."

"So? You know you can get him back."

"That means it doesn't break. Okay, I think I get it. My whole life has been a lie, my brother only puts up with me because we were both screwed around with by angels as kids, and now I have to do something similar to an innocent girl. Anything else I've missed?"

"Dean doesn't just put up with you, Sam. Your bond being artificially forged doesn't mean it's any less real."

"I don't care. I'm going to deal with that later. Much, much later. For now, I've got a plan to make. You say there's a shot at breaking the bond if she believes I'm dead?"

"Hypothetically, yes."

"Then that's all I need. Nice talking to you. Hope I never see you again."

That was a bit overdramatic, but it did make Sam feel better. As did slamming the door on his way out.

  
* * *

Dean carefully wrapped a bandage around his shin. Looping it over and over and finally tying it off, he checked to see if there was any blood seeping through. There was.

"How do I look?" He asked.

Sam gave it a once over. "Like your leg got mangled in a fall and you're not walking anywhere fast." Two thumbs up.

"Great. Did you get the potion?"

In answer, Sam held up a translucent plastic bag. Inside was a little bottle containing an acidic green concoction. "Cost quite a bit, but at least she didn't ask what we wanted it for. That would be hard to explain."

"You sure you're okay with this."

"Dean, I suggested it. I'm fine."

"But you don't think something's off about this? I mean, come on." He gave a hand wave towards the bottle. "Even I can see the irony here. First Juliet, then Romeo, then star-crossed lovers, then a potion that makes you appear dead?"

"I thought you hadn't seen the play."

"I've watched the movie, and it's practically the same thing, right?"

"There are thousands of literary critics that would disagree, but okay. So you're saying this is a setup?"

"Not exactly a setup. But I think someone's screwing with our lives."

"Dean, that's been happening before we were born. Do you want to call Juliet or should I?"

"You'd better do it. She's not going to disagree with anything you say."

Dean picked up Sam's phone from the nightstand and threw it across to him, where he caught it and scrolled through the contacts list. There. He put it to his ear.

 _"Hello?"_  came a voice from the other end.

"It's Sam here."

_"Sam! How are you this morning?"_

"I'm fine, thanks. Are you still on for the picnic in the woods later today?"

_"Of course I am! I think it's a really good idea. I've never had a woodland walk before. You can teach me about everything."_

"Yes, I'll do that. There's a little problem, though."

_"…Oh? Is it bad?"_

"My brother hurt his leg. It's nothing too bad, he can still walk, but I'm afraid to leave him by himself in case it gets worse. Would it be alright if he came with us?"

_"Oh. Um, sure… I guess."_

"He's agreed to stay out of our way a bit and carry the supplies. Haven't you Dean?" Sam grinned at him. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I'll carry everything."

_"He's there with you? Okay! I'm looking forward to it!"_

"Me as well. Bye."

_"Bye!"_

Sam pressed the 'end call' button and put the phone down. "There. Done."

"She didn't think it was a bit odd that you're having someone with a leg injury carry things on a walk? She's going to notice something's off."

"As long as she doesn't find anything off about  _me_ , it should be fine. But try to limp convincingly, just in case." Sam took out the potion from its bag. It was violent neon green, the type you'd find on a highlighter or glow-in-the-dark paint when the lights were off. "The witch said two-to-three hours, so I'd better take this now."

He headed for the bathroom, and shut the door behind him. Butterflies were suddenly in his stomach. What if it didn't work, and the bond didn't break? Moreover, what would happen if the mix was too strong and he  _actually_ died?

He stared at himself in the mirror. His reflection stared back.

Dean would take care of everything else. Sam had the easy part in this particular plan. All he had to do was drink something, go out for a walk, and die on time - then, more importantly, un-die several hours later. He trusted his brother to get all the other details sorted out.

Nothing would go wrong.

But just in case…

"This doesn't count." he said to his reflection in the mirror. It copied him in exactly every way, as reflections do. "It's not a natural death. So you're not allowed to kill me. No interference."

It was still copying him. Sam sighed. His reflection sighed as well. He didn't know what he'd expected.

"Bottoms up." He clinked the glass bottle against the mirror to toast himself and gulped the mixture down. It poured like honey, but it tasted like hydrochloric acid.

  
* * *

"Ooh, this looks like a good spot!"

Juliet rushed over to sit beneath a tree, on a carpet of pine needles. Sam followed. Dean followed him, carrying a backpack and walking with a pronounced limp due to the obvious bandage around his leg.

"What do you think?"

"It's good."

Juliet beamed from the praise. "We're so lucky everything is dry. So what's for lunch? I brought sandwiches."

As Dean unpacked, Juliet flopped out on her back and put a hand up towards the sky. "You know, I've always wondered what it would be like to see the stars from out in the middle of nowhere, like here."

"Oh, it's brilliant. You can see the whole Milky Way, and there aren't any helicopters or planes confusing you. Dean and I once had a campfire and toasted marshmallows under the stars."

"Really? We should do that too sometime."

Sam looked up at the sky too - and started. Not far above them, in the branches of the tree, sat Robin the Cupid. The air around her shimmered a little, and she seemed surprised when his eyes focused on her. She raised a finger to her lips.

"These look very good, Juliet." Sam took a sandwich - tuna mayo - and tried to eat it, but something in him rebelled and he had to fight not to spit out the first mouthful. He hadn't been eating much lately, but this was over the top for even that. It was starting.

He put the sandwich down and looked around. The act of turning his head made a rush of dizziness assault his brain. Suddenly, it was too hot underneath the tree. He was starting to sweat.

"Sam, are you alright?" Juliet had noticed. "Oh my god, are you allergic to eggs? Because I put eggs in the mayonnaise and- Dean, help me! Something's wrong with Sam!"

Sitting up was too hard, and his muscles were beginning to stiffen. Sam fell back against the carpet of needles, feeling them poke into his back, and stared blankly up at the sky. Robin was watching him.

"Sam! Sam, can you hear me?" Juliet was shaking his shoulders, it was starting to get a bit painful, and Dean stopped her.

"Don't, you'll hurt him. Sam, if you can hear us then say something."

Sam wasn't sure if he could say something even if he wanted to. Besides, Dean hadn't called him Sammy. They'd agreed that unless he did that to signal that the plan was going wrong, they should both play along.

Up in the tree branches, Robin was moving. She was taking something out. Sam couldn't see what it was, but it shimmered and shone in her hand and from the way she was holding it looked like she was drawing back the string of a-

Oh no.

"I'm sorry, Sam." Or maybe he just imagined the words. Then she let go, and something flashed towards him.

Sam used what strength he had left to twitch his eyes shut as the arrow hit. He felt it pierce his heart, actually felt it with a shock of something that wasn't quite pain, but wasn't far off. Above him, Dean was saying something. Hadn't he seen what had happened? Didn't he know how far upside down their plans had been turned in one fell swoop?

Sam would tell him, but opening his mouth might take more energy than he had in his entire body. He felt fingers touch around his eyes and struggled to keep them shut - opening them would mean looking, and looking would mean the spell taking effect.

"Sam. Sam, please wake up! Please!"

Sam felt another, larger hand touch the space over his heart. Dean's. Checking a pulse.

"I don't think he's breathing." Sam couldn't feel his heartbeat either. That was weird. In fact, lots of things were weird. How weird. Oh look, his brain was getting deprived of oxygen. Weird.

He felt a mouth on his lips. Juliet's, trying to give him the kiss of life. It wasn't the correct technique for CPR. Members of the public, gaining their first aid knowledge from watching too much Dr. Sexy.

"I'm not getting signal on my phone. It's too remote out here." Dean's voice again. "Do you have yours?"

Sam thought his brother sounded very calm, considering he was dying. He was dying, right? He couldn't think of any other explanation for why he'd be like this, and an icy chill was beginning to seep through his fingers as the lack of heartbeat stopped their blood supply.

"N-no. Can you run and get an ambulance? I want to - to stay with him."

"I would, but my leg…"

Sam was sure there was nothing wrong with Dean's leg, not the last time he looked. Why was Dean pretending to be wounded?

"You need to do it, Juliet. But it's going to be too late. Look at him. He's dead already."

"No! Don't say that!"

"He is."

"He's your brother!"

"You think I'm not one step from breaking down? He's dead. Face it. People don't come back from this sort of thing."

"No…"

"He is."

Sam had lost track of the conversation. Were they talking about him? He wasn't dead. Dead people didn't think. Or did they? He supposed he wouldn't know.

"You should take my phone, run to where you have signal, and call 911. Go now."

"But…"

"Go!"

There was the sound of something happening. Sam couldn't decipher what it was, but he guessed it might be someone running off.

"Sam, I'm not sure if you can still hear me, but if you can then everything's going to be fine. Juliet's gone and I think she's going to accept that bla bla bla blah…"

The words melded into each other. No longer speech, but a distorted pattern of meaningless sounds. Sam was sure he might have heard his name, but even his hearing was fading too, and paying attention was just… too… hard…

  
* * *

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam groaned into the pillow. It was nice here, and he was tired.

"Five more minutes…"

"No. You've been out three days, you get no more rest time. Up."

"Uuurgh…" Sam let his eyes open blearily into the pillow. Three days? What had he been doing? He remembered something about a picnic, and a Cupid, and-

He shut his eyes tightly. And that.

"Dean, we've got a problem."

"No we don't. Congratulations on being legally dead, though. Again."

Sam kept his eyes screwed tight as he sat up. His muscles were aching and strangely stiff, but he felt in top shape for a person whose body had been in shutdown for more than fifty hours.

"Open your eyes. Don't worry, the curtains are closed so the light's not too bright."

"No. Get me a blindfold."

"That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think? Or did that potion do something to your eyes-"

"Dean, the Cupid  _shot_  me. I need a blindfold, or at least something to cover my eyes with."

"What? Crap."

Sam heard the rustling of cloth and sensed Dean's hands tying something around his head. It felt like an article of clothing.

"When did this happen? When you were dying?"

"Yeah. She - it - it was up in the tree. I guess it couldn't get what it wanted by agreement, so it had to get it by force."

"I knew it was trouble. Are we sure you're going to fall in love with the first person you see?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Sam didn't want to spend the rest of his life blind, so they were going to have to test it.

Dean was thinking the same thing. "You stay right here in this room. I'll put a do not disturb on the door and keep the curtains closed so you can take the blindfold off."

"Where are you going?"

"To have a nice one-on-one with a Cupid and a gun that kills angels." Dean placed a piece of paper into Sam's lap. "Almost forgot. That's your death certificate - signed by me. I thought we could pair it from the one you wrote up a few months ago and hang them on Bobby's wall. Not many people get to sign each other's death certificates."

"How did you get my body out of the morgue?"

"Not legally, if that's what you mean. Don't worry about it - just keep calm. There will be some way to reverse this thing since the bond hasn't yet formed. Worst case scenario, I can deal with having you gaga to me for eternity."

Sam hadn't yet told him about the Cupid's revelation about their childhood. He hadn't had the courage to and now there just seemed like more important things to be getting done.

"I'll be back in an hour or two. There's a box of food on my bed and the bath tap's drinkable. Get your strength back and start moving about a bit. If anything at all comes up, your phone's on the nightstand and I want you to call me  _immediately_ , you get that? Don't leave the room."

Dean was doing that thing where he takes charge of a situation, and it made Sam feel a lot more reassured that things were under control.

"Okay? I'm going. Once the door shuts you'll be on your own. Are you alright with that, Sammy? Answer."

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good. See you in a couple of hours."

There was the sound of a door opening, then swinging shut, and then silence.

  
* * *

The room was dark, but it still felt too bright as Sam pulled the clothing - one of his shirts - off his face and the light assaulted his eyes. He blinked once, blinked twice, and he was adjusted.

Giving himself a once-over, he found that part of his chest hair had been shaved, probably to make way for defibrillator pads, and he was dressed in nothing more than a flimsy hospital gown. How Dean had managed to carry his then-corpse in here without bringing the police down on the hotel would remain a mystery, but knowing his brother Dean would just tell anyone who questioned him that Sam was terrible at getting drunk.

His body still felt achy, and every time his heart beat there was a throb of pain near the surface of his chest. Dressed like a hospital patient, everything felt off. He was a little sticky with sweat.

"I'm going to take a shower." he announced to the empty room. Saying these things out loud made them more definitive, and it wasn't like anyone was listening.

The water alternated between scalding and icy, but he toughed it out and scrubbed himself clean before wrapping himself in a towel and sprawling out on the bed to dry. Once that was mostly done, he pulled on a pair of boxers and then a t-shirt and jeans. Now he had his own clothes on, things felt a little more normal.

"What do I do now?" he wondered out loud.

 _"I have a few ideas."_  a voice answered from directly behind him.

Sam couldn't help it - he whirled around in a flash of panic, years of hunting instinct screaming at him to get a lock on the unknown. It was a man, average build, thin, possibly dangerous-

Their eyes met.

"Shit!" Sam remembered. He slapped his hands over his face. "Get out of here!"

He didn't know who it was, but to sneak up on him in that way meant it was a monster.

_"No, I don't think I will. Do you not recognise me, Sam?"_

Sam didn't. There was something eerily familiar about him, but he was sure he'd never seen that man before.

"Go away."

_"You can take your hands off your eyes. If that spell could take effect on me, it would already have done so."_

He was right - whoever he was. Sam dropped his hands and took another look at the mysterious man. Only, it wasn't that man anymore - now it was himself staring back at him with a calm half-smirk.

That meant shapeshifter, but he hadn't seen any goo, or…

"Lucifer." It was the only other explanation. Lucifer nodded.

 _"I'm surprised you didn't know it was me."_  With barely a whisper, his form morphed back into the other man and Sam, watching his face, realised what had made him seem so familiar - it was still his own eyes staring back at him.  _"I thought I would use this so as to not disturb you more than I must, since you take objection to my use of our image."_

"Who is that?"

_"A man from a long time ago. A previous vessel - he's been dead thousands of years. You need not concern yourself with him."_

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call Gabriel up right now and tell him you broke the deal we made." Sam's voice was cold and sharp. He'd thought he'd seen the last of this.

_"Because I didn't break it."_

"Yeah? I seem to remember it covering no contact with me as well as the no using my body clauses."

Lucifer shook his head.  _"Not that. The deal was set to end when you died - and you died."_

"That doesn't count!"

_"How so?"_

"It wasn't real death. We faked it."

Lucifer laughed _. "Oh you're naive. The potion you were given was a poison, though and through. So strong that even a drop of it would kill you and the witch who sold it told you to dose yourself up on the whole bottle. You have a reputation among that community for someone who would be better off dead."_

"So you resurrected me."

_"Yes. You were dead three days. I had to wait for Dean to retrieve you, otherwise you would be revived in a room full of corpses and I'd imagine you wouldn't have wanted that."_

"You're right there, I guess." Sam would pointedly ignore the archangel currently piggybacking off his soul, but there was no point and it would just make him appear childish. "So how does that even work?" He waved at Lucifer's body, which was sitting on the bed and making a depression in the covers. "I imagine you're not physically there, or the need for vessels is a moot point."

_"To everyone else, nothing is out of the ordinary."_

"Then they don't see something pushing down on the bed?"

_"No."_

"But I do."

_"Yes."_

"So I'm the one seeing things that aren't there."

_"That's an interesting philosophical question, Sam. This physical reality doesn't exist - it's only how we perceive it. In any case, nobody else is watching. We are alone."_

"So this is it then, I guess. I'm done for." Sam flopped back and tried to make his head hit the pillow, but it whacked the headboard instead and now his skull was throbbing. "Ow! I had a nice life, even if it was a bit short."

_"I don't understand you."_

"That was the deal, wasn't it? You keep out of my way until I die, and then you get my body for the rest of eternity and a day."

_"I don't want to be your enemy, Sam. I won't force anything from you."_

"Then go away."

Lucifer got up, and for one little moment Sam's heart leapt hopefully at the thought he would do as he was told. But he only approached and touched Sam's forehead with two fingers - the pain vanished as soon as it had come.

_"If you're amenable, I'm happy to return to our previous arrangement."_

"The one where you dragged me around and forced me to keep it a secret from Dean? Or the one where we both pretended you didn't exist?"

_"Either."_

"Then let's pretend you don't exist. I shouldn't talk to myself so much."

_"Don't be childish, Sam."_

Sam pointedly ignored him in favour of staring at a suddenly interesting crack in the wall.

_"The reason I'm doing this is so we can learn not to be enemies. We'll be together a long time and it's best to correct that as soon as possible. So why are you fighting me?"_

"If you want to pretend you don't exist, the best way to start would be by  _shutting. up._ " Sam said through gritted teeth.

_"Very well. Deny my help. But you should check under the bed; there's something there I think you ought to see."_

Then he was gone.

Sam held out a whole half hour, sitting there trying to focus his mind on something - anything - else, before his burning curiosity got the better of him and he dropped down to the floor with a flashlight to check what was under there.

Nothing large. A nickle, the lead from a mechanical pencil, and a small half-pile half-streak of powder.

Yellow powder.

Yellow powder that when he sniffed it, smelt like rotten eggs.

Sulfur. Demons. Sam's mind was whirring, trying to comprehend how this could possibly be here. The Cupid - it had mentioned a demon in the vicinity. But Dean always kept the room warded, so unless one of them had gotten past a salt circle it was impossible.

But room service cleaned up each day. It wasn't out of the question that they could have broken the more subtle protections, and since normally under the bed was cleared or at least vacuumed the sulfur had to have been left recently. Maybe today.

With a start Sam scrabbled for his phone. He had to call Dean and tell him to watch out; then he had to check all the wards to make sure he wasn't vulnerable.

But his phone wouldn't turn on. He tried multiple times, got the charger out, but the screen stayed black. Eventually he unscrewed the back with his nail, and saw a mangled mess of wires looking half-melted like a fire had run through them. Sabotage. Whoever it was, they had planned this out perfectly.

He had to find a phone. Normally, motels had at one in the room but when he checked that one it too had been melted inside its case. Terrifyingly, when he put his hand to it the plastic was still a little warm. It had to have been recent, within the past five or so hours.

That meant the had to go out. And  _that_ meant he was at serious risk of seeing someone, and he wasn't sure if dying had in fact broken the Cupid's spell or it just didn't work on the angel possessing you and it was waiting to jump him as soon as he laid eyes on another person.

There was a phone booth at the end of the corridor, around the other side of the elevators and next to the fire escape. He'd seen it when they had checked in, however long ago that was. If he could make it there and back - he could do it - could he?

To be on the safe side, Sam rolled the shirt he'd used before up into a makeshift blindfold again and tied it around his eyes. That way, if he passed someone in the corridor the worst that would happen is that they'd think him strange.

He tiptoed out, making sure to keep the door unlocked so he could return, and edged down the left side of the hallway by keeping his hands on the wall. The elevators were this way, he was sure of it.

Or were they to the right of him instead?

There was the sound of footsteps and breathing, as someone passed him in the corridor. Sam imagined their head turning to stare at him in confusion, but in reality they walked right by him like he wasn't there. Like a stranger ignoring a stranger.

He was lost. He didn't know the way blindfolded - it had been too long ago and he'd died since then. Sam tried to return to his room - but no, he didn't know the number. He hadn't checked it upon going out, though he knew enough Braille to translate what was written on the doors he passed.

It was sit here and flounder, with a demon about and time of the essence, or swallow his pride. So to ensure Dean's safety, he did.

"Help." Sam whispered to the empty hallway.

 _"Where do you want to go?"_  The empty hallway whispered back.

"The phone booth by the elevators."

 _"It's to your right. Turn counter-clockwise."_  Sam did.  _"Stop. Now walk along in that direction. The hallway turns a corner, so keep your hands in front of you."_

He walked until he hit a wall, then turned left according to Lucifer's instructions and started walking again.

_"It's coming up on your left hand side. I'll tell you when."_

"How is it you can see when I can't? I thought you were supposed to be inside my head."

_"I am inside your head. But I am in other places as well. Put your left arm out to the side."_

His fingers touched the plastic-bordered glass of the door to the booth and Sam groped around for the handle, pulling it open to step inside.

His fingers brushed over the keypad, and he fumbled in his pocket for quarters. He didn't know how much it cost, and he debated with himself pulling off the blindfold and risking it.

There was the sound of someone descending the stairs not far away from him.

The fire escape; of course. Its entrance was right by here - Dean and he used it all the time instead of the lifts. But nobody else in their right mind who wasn't a fitness fanatic would do the same thing, so who was currently shoving the door to it open?

"Who is it?" He asked.

 _"You know her."_  Lucifer replied, and there was a creak as the phone booth was opened up.

Sam tried to dodge, tried to swing a punch, tried to do anything but think  _this was a stupid idea it wanted me out of the wards why did I do this?_ , but the thing stopped his arm with more than human strength and before he could retaliate again had yanked the blindfold off.

"Hello, Sam. Long time no see."

She smiled at him and her eyes flicked black.

  
* * *

Sam was still staring at her, eyes wide in almost non-comprehension, hands trembling from where they had been forming fists.

"…Ruby?"

"The one and only. I heard you got yourself mixed up in some serious business. A Cupid? The rest of us know better than to go near those."

"Ruby, I'm - I'm so glad you're here."

"Like you should be. See, I was planning to do this the long way around but I couldn't pass up this chance. It isn't every day you get the opportunity to have the human you're meant to be manipulating following you around like a lost little duckling." She brushed a hand over his hair. "Gosh, you really are out of it aren't you?"

"I'm - I'm fine. Ruby, what happens if Dean sees you? He can't know that-"

"Don't worry. I've got it all worked out. Go back to the room, pack your stuff, and we leave in half an hour. Don't take anything that can be traced."

"We're running away together?"

"Yes, Sam, we're eloping into the sunset. You know, I think I like you better this way. Now chop chop. If we wait too long, Dean might stumble in on our little tryst and then I'd have to get the weapons out."

Ruby spun him around to point Sam down the hallway. "Room 312, go in, pack. Dean put up salt lines this morning before stealing you out the morgue so I can't get in."

"Okay."

"You're so  _docile_  like this. Like I tamed a wolf into a puppy. Oh, I can tell this is going to be fun."

She watched him enter the room and followed until she was just outside the Devil's Trap written in fluorescent paint on the ceiling. Sam was throwing items of clothing haphazardly into a backpack, and she smiled.

"Come on, don't take too long. We've got a seal to break; actually, now I've got you we can break so  _many,_ but the particular one I had in mind only works today. Time's ticking."

"I just need to…" Sam was staring around, wide-eyed, as he began tidying up his side of the room.

"I didn't know you were OCD. Come on, love, let's go skip town."

"Where are we going?"

Ruby shifted. No reason not to say, after all. "An old church down a dozen blocks away. St. Mary's. Has to be done on consecrated ground, this one does."

"…Okay. Let's go."

Sam finished arranging what he was leaving - his side of the room looked nearly like it hadn't been slept in - and walked back under the trap to join her.

"We'll take the elevator. Wouldn't want to meet Dean on the fire escape stairs."

"Good thinking, Sammy." Sam didn't correct her. That was a great sign, and Ruby flicked an annoying strand of her meatsuit's hair that was getting in front of her eyes. "You know, with the rightful ruler of Hell down with our plan, things are going to go a lot more smoothly from now on."

  
* * *

Knock knock knock.

"Sam?" Dean's voice filtered through the door. "Sam, you in there? I'm coming in, so put the blindfold back on. I've found out some stuff you really should know about this thing."

Nobody answered him.

Dean swiped his card and turned the handle to reveal an empty room. "Sam?"

Still nothing.

"Sam, this isn't funny. Stop it."

He picked his way carefully inside, on full alert, bracing for whatever ghastly scene his luck was sure to make him come upon now. But there really was nothing - no corpse of his brother dripping in the bathroom; no trace of Sam at all. Even his side of the room had been tidied up to make it appear as if he'd never been there.

Dean spun around and yelled at the empty air: "Where are you! Show yourself, you cowardly little bitch!"

Robin appeared, hitting the floor with a thunk and looking around fearfully. "What happened?"

"Oh, play the  _innocent_. What happened is you went and kidnapped Sam and now he's in his own happy ever after he never asked for. Sure, let's just fix our mistakes by deliberately screwing people's minds up, dragging them off and-"

"I didn't do this."

"Like Hell you did. This has your stamp all over it. Now tell me where my brother is or I swear, I will shoot you and this gun can kill almost anything. Prissy little angels included."

"I didn't, honest!" Her voice had risen about half an octave, because Dean now had the Colt out and pointed straight at her.

"Locked and loaded. I want his location and how to break it. Come  _on_ , I know you know there's a better way."

"L-look, it wasn't me. I have no idea who-" She froze. "A demon. A demon's been in this room; recently."

"Don't try to shift blame. See where it gets you." With an expert movement he angled the gun down and shot her in the foot. The bang echoed through the room. Robin howled in pain as sparks of electricity shot through her body. Her legs gave out and she slumped to the floor.

"There's…"

"Start talking, or it'll be your arm next, then your stomach, then your head. I have no more patience for your games."

"Under the bed, there's… sulfur." With a weak movement, leg still spasming, Robin lifted up the sheet and swiped a hand under, coming out holding a pinch of yellowish powder. "I smelt it. That's how I… knew."

"What the-" Dean bent down and swiped a fingerful, sniffing it. Sulfur, clear as day. She hadn't been lying about the demon. "Crap, you were telling the truth. What happened here?"

"I don't know." Robin dragged her useless leg into a cross-legged sitting position and inspected her ankle. Angels not in vessels didn't apparently bleed, but it was swelling horribly and whitish cracks in the skin were seeping out from the shot point. "Maybe he chased one of them out."

"That's not possible. It's warded. For a demon to get this far into the room Sam would have had to deliberately break the-" He stopped short. "Oh no."

"What?"

"You! You and your  _stupid_  arrow - this is even worse than it was before. Fuck, now he's turned darkside because of you! Do you have any idea how much you've just messed up?"

"But-but that's not possible. I couldn't have-"

"You did."

"No I didn't, don't you see? It's like I told you before - the arrow I used, it wasn't  _that_  strong. Not enough to make him switch allegiances just like that."

"I didn't believe you then, and I don't now. Give me one reason why I should."

"Because that was my plan! I needed it to go beneath your noticing. Sam wasn't supposed to even see me shooting him, let alone remember it - I looked up the potions that can make you appear dead, and most of them cause substantial memory loss in the last hour before you drop. The bond would be forged with Juliet, and neither of you would have a clue. But it would make him guilty enough to visit sometime, in a few months. And then he'd change his mind."

"You planned this out." Dean said with disgust.

"Of course I planned it out! You think Cupids just shoot arrows into anyone they meet? We understand it's a big deal for someone and we try to make sure everything goes right. It's just… It's just not working for me anymore."

Robin slumped over and cradled her useless leg.

"Well excuse me if I have exactly zero sympathy. Point still stands that my brother's been kidnapped by a demon and you're the cause. Somehow. Now what happened, if he didn't let it in?"

"Maybe he did."

"What? But you just-"

"Maybe he was  _faking_  switching sides. He's just woken up from a death-sleep. He couldn't fight like that. So instead of letting himself be killed, he went along with it and is waiting for a chance to escape?"

"He would have left a message." Dean scrambled around, looking for something.

"I'm not so sure; if Sam was being watched there would be no way for him to-"

"Shut up!" He fixed her with a glare. "You know what? Go away. Flap off before I shoot you again."

"I can't." She spoke back to him earnestly. "I can't fly until I can get the bullet out. I'm grounded."

"Then sit there, don't say anything, and don't move." Dean narrowed his eyes, squinting around the room. Sam's side was tidy, almost perfectly neat, but that only served to draw attention to the few things had had been deliberately and sloppily left out of place. "I need to decipher this."

  
* * *

Sam walked through the graveyard, headstones passing on either side, accompanied on his right by a demon and on his left by a fallen angel nobody but he could see. Despite being in the middle of a bustling town, this place had an odd calm to it, and the way the trees had been planted had been done to shield the church from both sight and sound of the road.

"This is it - come on, get inside before somebody sees us." Ruby scanned the greenery around them. "If one of the angels is watching this place we'll both turn into charcoal the second they notice. Get a move on; this seal needs to be done before sunset."

Sam stepped through the heavy oak door after her, pausing to look back once he was at the first row of pews.

"What are you staring at? See anything?"

"…No."

Lucifer smiled, shrugged, and stepped over the threshold. _"Ah, churches. They're relaxing; it's been a while since I've entered a place of worship beyond projection of my soul."_

"Well, don't just stand there, I hid the stuff underneath the altar cloth. Help me get it out." Ruby tugged on his arm. "Come on, this place makes me antsy. I can't stand churches. Their air stings my eyes."

Sam pulled out a plastic drawer that looked like it was from IKEA, containing some candles, rags, a bottle of clear liquid and a plant pot with a tiny trowel inside it. "What do I have to do?"

"Dig something up. A plant, preferably a flower, but grass will probably do if we can't find one. It has to be growing on top of one of the graves: life sprung from death. Put it in the pot and bring it back inside. I'll get the rest ready."

Sam shoved the trowel into the soil and prised up a chunk of clover, the roots snapping as he dumped it in the pot. He glanced around. Still no sign of Dean, and the sun was high enough in the sky that he couldn't stall for enough time.

"What should I do?" he asked the empty churchyard.

 _"You're asking me for advice? We've come such a long way in a short space of time. I'm proud of you, Sam."_  Lucifer blinked and stared at the tiny hole in the ground between the final resting places of Mr. Harry Sulloway, 1952-1998, and Mrs. Janet Hardy, 1941-1998. Their names were inscribed on the stones.  _"What you're doing now is fine, I'd say. I can relocate us both if something goes wrong, but-"_

"-That would draw attention. Yeah, I know."

Sam picked up the pot and carried it back inside to where Ruby was lighting black candles on the altar. She nodded to acknowledge him and returned to her work, lighting them using another candle she seemed to have stolen from the collection of prayer lights by the entrance.

"Set it down in the middle of them."

"What are you using the small candle for? It looks like it would be a pain to light things with."

"Oh, it is. But these ritual candles need something a little bit stronger to light them. Since I don't have holy oil on hand I'm making do with fire brought into being by remembrance. It was already lit when I got in here, so hopefully whoever lit it did so in memory of someone. Seems like it's working."

"Why are we doing this?"

"Oh, you silly thing." Ruby laughed and ruffled his hair. "You're so clueless like this. I say jump, it takes you an hour to even ask how high. We're doing this to break one of the six-hundred-sixty-six seals of the apocalypse."

"That's good?"

"That's  _very_ good. The only demon so far who's managed to break a seal solo is Lillith. Normally they take fifty or so, and as soon as the angels notice what's happened that's the last of those fifty demons. But with access to you, I can do better than that. By my reckoning at least a hundred of the seals deal either directly or indirectly with you, so that's a hundred seals I can break that we couldn't before, most of them a lot easier than the other five hundred. I could hit the record."

"But why are we breaking seals, exactly?"

"Ah, Sammy. You don't mind if I call you Sammy, right? Of course you don't. We're doing this to let out a very special angel."

"Who? Aren't angels your enemies?"

"Not this one. He'll save us and lead us. Our Father."

"Lucifer?"

She scowled. "Don't use that name. That's the name the angels instated to stop humanity's prayers from travelling to him. Call him by his true name. I know you know it. You share that much, after all."

"Who is he?"

"He's our God, our candle in the dark. The brightest of them all. With him on our side we can finally stand up to the rest of them. No more cowering in the shadows like wounded cockroaches, no more fear when we look at the sky; we can be free." Ruby took his hand and clasped it between her two smaller ones. They were cold, like blood had stopped circulating properly through the meatsuit's body. "You, Sammy, you're going to be so crucial. We need you, and now we have you."

She kissed him.

Sam kissed back, and Ruby's gaze was dark and smoky as she broke off and stared deeply into his eyes. "You'd do it for me, wouldn't you? Give yourself over to him, if I asked you to. If it was the one thing that would make me happy, the one thing I wanted most in the world."

"Yes." Sam breathed.

Ruby drew in a delighted breath. "He's going to love you. You'll love him too, you know. You won't ever look back."

Sam was starting to feel a little woozy. There was something in the candles; some mind-altering drug being smoked into the air along with the thick smell of incense. He couldn't think quite so straight anymore.

Ruby traced a line around his eyes. "You're more alert than I thought you'd be like this. Asking all these questions. It's for the best, I suppose. I'd hate to be on the end of his wrath if this had damaged you."

"Would you die for him? If he wanted you to."

"Sam. Oh, Sam." Her eyes were pure black but there was still an eerie, feverish light in them. "I'd do more than die for him. I'll submit to his judgement when he comes and weighs the sins of the world and finds it guilty on every account. I'd walk into Hell for him. I'd destroy it all, every last town and city rotting with maggots and flies, if he asked me to do so. He's the only god worth worshipping."

She stopped, as if suddenly remembering what they were there for and what they had to do, and took a step back and a deep breath to clear the air in her lungs.

"Alright. There's holy water in the bottle; take care not to get any of it on me. Water the plant with it. If we've done this right it should - yes, look."

Sam had poured some of the holy water onto the clover and it had sprouted, twisting and crawling up the sides of the pot.

"Earth and water combined, fire and air around them. Now all we need is blood. Some of mine…" With a flourish, Ruby pulled her knife - the demon-killing one, she'd recovered it sometime in the months since it had been lost - and sliced a line down her meatsuit's hand, letting red beads drip onto the tangled mess of greenery. "There. That should do it." She twisted her hand up to lick it clean, then held the cut out towards Sam. "Want some?" she asked jokingly.

Sam took a step back and shook his head.

"Ah well, I suppose we'll get to that bit a little later. Now, the final step." She handed the knife over to Sam without a second thought. "We need some of your blood too. Just cut your hand and let it drip into there. Out of curiosity, did you see the name on the tombstone you got the plant from? I want to know who we're resurrecting."

"I, um…" He hadn't. He'd taken it from a patch of earth not over a grave, in an attempt to mess up the ritual. Sam didn't think it had worked. "Don't know."

"That's fine. We'll find out in a few minutes. It's not important anyway. They're not why we're doing this."

 _"Dean has entered the churchyard. He'll arrive in about half a minute. Good timing on his part."_  Lucifer remarked from his place at the lectern.

Sam gripped the knife tightly and raised it to eye level, inspecting the symbols on it and noting that it had been cleaned until it shone bright silver underneath the bloodstain of the demon blood. Ruby took better care of it than they had ever done.

"What do we do once the blood's in there?"

"You do nothing. I say a few words, and then we wait for a zombie to dig themselves out of their grave. Hurry up, we've only got until the light fades."

Sam nodded, blinked, and positioned the knife to slice his hand…

…just as the church door slammed open, revealing Dean holding the Colt and taking aim at Ruby. She whirled around and took shelter behind the altar before he had a good shot.

"Do it now!" she hissed at Sam under her breath.

Sam didn't obey, though, and instead he threw the knife down on the floor towards his brother. It skidded and spun to a stop far out of either of their reaches. "No."

"Wha-" Realisation dawned on her face. "You were faking, weren't you."

"Yes." Sam stared down at her. Her eyes were bright black.

"I knew it was too good to be true."

Dean sprinted up the aisle, past the knife, advancing on the altar and taking aim. Ruby's head, appearing for just a second to scout moves to make, quickly ducked down as a bullet cracked the air where she had been just a second before. A wooden sculpture at the back of the church splintered.

"Get behind me, Sammy!" He had slowed to a careful pace, the Colt pointed so she was cornered. "Let's kill this bitch once and for all."

 _"Don't let him."_  Lucifer spoke, a command from the empty air.  _"Save her, Sam."_

And Sam, not quite thinking straight in the heat of battle and the incense clouding his thoughts, obeyed. He placed himself firmly between his brother and the demon.

"What the Hell are you doing?"

"Stop it, Dean. We don't have to - why should we?"

"Shit - we don't have  _time_  for this, get out of the way!"

"No! You'll just have to shoot me first."

Dean tried to take aim around him but it would be impossible at that angle to get a clear shot without a chance of hitting his brother. Sam looked down at Ruby, and she stared back up at him with awed and grateful eyes, holding one of the black candles in both hands clasped as if in prayer.

"Sam… thank you. Thank you so much."

She blew out the flame and vanished.

"…What. The. Fuck." Dean stomped over, the Colt still out but pointed relatively safely at the floor. "The Hell was that, Sam?"

"I - I don't know!" How could he explain? He couldn't. Sam raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender and backed off from the equipment on the altar. "I have no idea what just-"

"Neither do I! You have any idea what ritual the demon was trying to use you for?"

"A seal." That one he could say. "Of the apocalypse. She explained. And it was Ruby, Dean. Not just any demon."

"I figured. You don't get all buddy-buddy with someone like that unless you have history together. And you do, don't you, right? That lost time I never knew about, but  _you_  spent-"

"What? That has nothing to do with this!"

"-Hyping yourself up on hell drugs and doing God knows what else. Or are you denying it now?"

"Dean. Let's just talk about this. Calmly?" Sam pleaded. Dean paused in his actions, as if seeing how he was stalking his little brother like he would a monster. He gritted his teeth and stowed away the Colt.

"Fine. But you are going to have a very good explanation of why you just let her go. And what a seal means."

"I don't know what the seals mean. I think they're trying to break them, but I'm not- I don't know."

"What about the self-sacrifice?"

"I don't know either." Even in his own ears it sounded lame.

"Great. Just great. Because I've worked it out."

"What?"

"The arrow. It shot you, and now you've got a bond with Ruby, and that's why you wouldn't let her die."

"No. That's not-"

"Give me one reason to think differently, Sammy."

Sam swallowed, his throat dry and feeling scorched. He hadn't had a drink in days. "I can't."

"Come on. Let's get back. I've got an angel bleeding out on the floor of the motel room and I need to stitch her up."

"You're not angry?"

"It's not your fault. It's the universe crapping on our lives from on high, and I don't see how shouting at you will make anything any better. Grab that stuff from the altar and we'll clear out of this place before anyone investigates the gunshots."

  
* * *

Robin wasn't bleeding out. Angels didn't bleed, not in that way, but she was shivering on the floor while what passed for skin on her leg swelled and shrank and cracked into whitish scabs. The bullets from the Colt were very much the real deal, and she moaned in pain when Sam dug into the wound with tweezers and pulled it out.

Afterwards, she lay propped on the bed with a bandaged ankle and an exhausted expression. Dean at least had the good graces to look ashamed of what he'd done.

"We need to know if there's any chance the bond could have been broken when Sam faked his death. The one you shot him with."

She shook her head wearily. "Doesn't work like that. It tags your soul, not your body, though there's a heartmark too. The only way it would have broken is if one of the Reapers moved him on to the next world. They carry special daggers that have the power to do it. I don't."

Sam was on edge at the way they discussed him like he wasn't there. He cut in.

"What happens next, though?"

"Well, since she's not giving up her bow, I guess we try to find another one. And stop these seals breaking at the same time."

"No… You can have it."

"What?"

In answer, Robin held out her hand and Sam watched a tattoo swim into being. It had something not natural about it, something weird and glowy that he suspected only he might be able to see.

"Sam. You can have it. It's yours now."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I'm a terrible excuse for an angel. I broke our number one rule." Tears were beginning to swim into her eyes. "I performed soul magic without the soul's consent. I'm so sorry."

"Wait, I thought that was how you normally operate? Cupids don't exactly ask before they shoot."

"No, but we… We only ever shoot people who are already in a relationship. Dating, friends, family, it doesn't matter as long as the consent is presumed to be there. It's why we go to bars, why we're active on Valentine's day, why we watch our targets for so long before we pair them. To check they're right for each other even without our intervention. And I disregarded that. I know you'll never forgive me, but I'll never forgive myself either. Everything's wrong. I messed up so badly these past few days."

"Can't argue with that." Dean remarked, and Sam shot him a glare on the side.

"Once the Host finds out what I've done - and they will. Soon. They'll strip me of my rank and return my bow to the garrison. Cast me out among the humans. You may as well take it before they do; use it well."

She clasped Sam's hand in her own and he felt a shimmer move over his skin, like warm sunlight creeping over him, before it faded and the lines around Robin's eyes grew a little heavier.

"There, it's done. You'll know how to use it when the time comes."

"What will you do now?"

"Most of my Grace burned away when the bullet hit me. What's left is just enough to take me to Juliet. I'll make sure she lives what's left of her life as well as she can. No more romance. Azariel's bloodline will die out this century. And when this body dies…" Robin looked down at herself. "In a few years. Less than ten - these temporary vessels aren't as durable as yours. When I die, if the Host has the good graces to accept me, I will gladly return to Heaven. But I think I'll be going to Hell, since angels don't often get second chances. I've always wanted to meet Emery and Roe."

"Who are Emery and-"

"Dean, shut up, I'll tell you later."

Robin stood up and put weight on her ankle. It seemed to hold, having healed once the poison inside it was out.

"I'm leaving now. Was there anything else you wanted to ask?"

"The seals."

She nodded. "Yes, the seals. There was one other thing I wanted to tell you, but I've forgotten. It'll come back. The seals - I don't know enough, I'm not a Seraphim. Ask Castiel about them; as your protector, Dean, he will be duty-bound to tell you about any threats to your wellbeing and he knows more than I do."

Dean narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. "I'm not asking him."

"Suit yourself. Ah, that last thing: you're not ever supposed to know this, but I've broken the first rule in the book so I may as well break the last one too. I don't know what you need the bow for, but there will always be someone who does, and if you find him and he agrees to help you'll have a powerful ally on your side."

"Who?"

"I don't know his name, only his title. The prophet."

"What?"

"Supernatural. That's its name. Supernatural. Search for it; you'll find it. It's out there." Robin drew herself up to her full height. "Farewell, Winchesters."

There was the sound of shifting air and then nothing more.

  
* * *

The tap creaked as icy water began to dribble from it, and it stung Sam's hands with cold as he gathered it up and used it to splash his face. Behind him, reflected in the mirror, Lucifer was watching with an air of detatched interest.

"Will you stop that?"

_"I'm doing no harm."_

Splash. Another freezing shock to his system, but he still wasn't feeling normal. His skin had been numbed to this level of cold.

Sam gave up and rubbed a towel over his head, painfully aware that he still wasn't alone.

"Why did you tell me to save Ruby? I don't get it."

_"No real reason. She seemed rather devoted, so I thought it might be useful in future to keep her around. The better question is, why did you save her?"_

"Because you told me to, isn't that obvious?"

_"Since when have you done as I told you to? I don't remember any other time that wasn't under either physical force or coercive threat."_

"No. That's not-" But it was. Sam let the handful of water drain from his fingers as he realized what he'd done. "But we had a deal. Didn't we?"

_"Not a formal one."_

"Then I could go out there, tell Dean what's wrong, and you honestly wouldn't stop me."

_"I don't think I would. Are you going to?"_

"No!" Sam answered on reflex, as a brief flash of panic crossed him - Dean couldn't find out, could never find out. "No. What's wrong with me? You did something." These emotions were irrational, illogical. He shouldn't be caring about the Devil.

_"I did nothing."_

"I don't believe you."

 _"I mislead the truth, but I won't outright lie to you, Sam._ I _did nothing."_

"Is this what Stockholm Syndrome feels like?" He was never going to look down on those case studies again.

Lucifer smiled.  _"Possibly."_

The bond between prisoner and captor, resulting in a change in loyalties as the abused sided with their abuser. Not supernatural at all, but all the more powerful for it. Sam rubbed his face and neck dry and took a deep breath, inhaling the slightly lemon-scented towel.

The he turned to face Lucifer, and looked him straight in the eye.

"You need to leave. Go away. Now, preferably."

_"I won't."_

"Then you're breaking the deal."

_"No formal deal was made, not the second time. But if you have some issue with our arrangement, feel free to bring it to the attention of whomever you choose. I won't stop you."_

"I hate you, you know that?"

_"Not for much longer, I hope. Dean's waiting - we should leave."_

 


	13. Chapter 13

"No way. No  _way_. I don't believe this. Sam, do you believe this?"

"Yes."

"What I don't get is how you're so calm about it. I- I mean…" Dean flapped his hands at the laptop screen. "Books. About us. How did we not notice these before?"

"Dean, they're fiction. It's not something we'd read. We have other things to be worried about. Did you find out where that tech support man was buried?"

"Not yet.  _Sam_ , books. Written by some know-it-all with inside information on everything. From when you quit Stanford to when I went to Hell - ongoing, it says. Pending new releases. You're not even a little worked up about it?"

"No."

Dean clicked on a link. "Oh look, we have a fansite."

"I wouldn't go on there if I were you."

"Why not? We have  _fans_."

"Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm going to check out the library." Sam swung a bag over his shoulder. "Since you're not being helpful and we actually have a case, remember?"

"Woah, hold up. I'm coming with you."

"So you can flirt with the librarian? No thanks."

"I'm not letting you out there on your own."

"It's a restless spirit. Not going to attack me in the daytime; I'm fine."

"That's what we think it is. Could be something else, something worse."

_"Even if it was, there's not much I can't obliterate. You'll be safe, Sam."_

Sam ignored both of them and headed for the door.

"Come on, Sammy - we need to stick together when we're hunting this thing."

"Then how about you stop messing about on the internet and actually get to doing some research!" he snapped. "…Sorry. I just need some time alone, alright? To get me out of this motel room."

"No, I'll come with. I need a break too. I'm going stir-crazy in here."

"Right, then  _you_  go to the library. I'll stay."

"Either we both stay or we both go."

"What has been with you the past few days, Dean? It's not like I'm about to slit my wrists the instant I'm out of your sight or something like that. I don't need watching twenty-four seven."

"Of course you don't. I'm just worried." Dean had switched into prevent-a-blow-up mode. "Looking out for you."

"This is about Ruby, right? You think I'll run off because of that stupid arrow. Seriously, I don't think there even was an arrow. The spell must have failed when I died. I'm not obsessing over her; at the moment, that's you."

"But you have things going on with her that I don't know about. I know that much."

"Dean, that was a  _year_  ago. And technically nothing ever happened. I told you, I don't want to talk about it."

That had been a dark time for Sam. In fact, he had shoved most of the memories out of his mind and let them be rewritten by the ones of the new timeline, the one where his brother hadn't been killed on that Wednesday at the Mystery Spot.

"You two have history. And you're meant to be falling in love. For all I know, I look away for five minutes and you'll run off together and mess up on this Apocalypse stuff I still have no clue what's going on about."

"That's  _it_." Sam clicked the doorknob open and tugged his wrist out of Dean's grip. "I'm out. I'm leaving. I'll be in the library if you need me and if you don't then stay the hell away until I come back."

Dean made another grab but Sam was already out the door and halfway down the hallway before he could properly give chase.

"Sam!"

No use. He didn't turn round, but even though Sam was a better sprinter it was only a matter of time before Dean's superior stamina let him catch up. And then maybe the run might clear both of their heads a bit - that motel room was toxic. They were both going stir-crazy since the Trickster and whoever was posting them letters hadn't shown up.

Out into the fire escape, running full pelt down the stairs. Sam was taking them four at a time, and Dean honestly had no idea how he hadn't fallen over yet. Only a matter of time if he kept going this fast. Dean grinned.

"Bet I catch you before you hit the bottom, Sammy!"

"Bet you don't!"

He didn't. Sam's feet hit tiling and he shoved the bar on the door, swinging it open to dash out the exit. Maybe ten seconds later Dean did the same.

…And stopped.

The grass out here was dusty, but it stretched out for ages into a field that the signs said was a fire assembly area. No other buildings for at least three hundred feet. No places to hide.

Also no sign of Sam.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean turned around to look above the door. It would be like him to somehow scale the wall and escape detection that way - but no, not there. "Where are you, man?"

No response.

"Crap."

  
* * *

The pigeons started and flew off in all different directions.

"What the-" Sam cut off and skidded to a stop. "What did you just do?"

_"You seemed like you wanted some time alone."_

'Alone' apparently meant 'stuck in some place with no idea where you are' because the buildings, last he'd checked, had never been that shape.

"You teleported me?"

_"You were already making use of my enhanced agility. I didn't think it much of an extra step."_

"B-but you- what if someone saw?" Sam cast a quick look around and no, there was nobody in the vicinity. Then another thought struck him. "What if Dean saw? Did he see?"

_"I wouldn't be so careless."_

"You just zapped me off to- where are we exactly? No, wait, don't answer that. I want to try to work it out."

This was about the weirdest and most immersive game of guess-where-you-are-on-google-maps Sam had ever played.

His phone bleeped, and it was a text.

_Sam, either respond to this text now or I assume you've been kidnapped by T again and go get the Colt._

He tapped out a reply with one thumb.

_Everything's fine. Will be back at 4. Changed mind about going to Library: don't look for me there. Banana._

A little hesitation, and then:

_You should look up those fansites again. See if you can get new information from them._

Sam grinned evilly and stowed his phone back in his pocket. See how Dean liked that - serves him right for being so pushy all the time. Although he rather wished he could see the look on his brother's face when he discovered the joys of the internet.

"It's two-thirty, we've got more than an hour." The fading evening sky told him it was most definitely not two-thirty, at least not here, but of all the things that tried to mess up his life Sam could deal with timezones just fine. "Is there anywhere you wanted to go?"

_"Me?"_

"Who else would I be talking to? Of course I mean you. I mean, have you ever seen a modern city?"

_"Of course I have."_

"Through my memories doesn't count."

_"…Then no."_

"Where do you want to start? I need to visit a bookshop, but we'll have lots of time after that. Ordering for you in a coffee shop would look strange."

Lucifer had stopped paying attention; he was crouching beside one of the manholes in the road.

"What are you doing?"

 _"Two demons down in the sewers."_  What looked like a small spark jumped from his hand and into the grate.  _"They're gone now. Best they not find you so far away from where you're supposed to be. Why are you being so friendly, Sam? Not that I mind, but I was under the impression our relationship was more hostile than this. If you want something from me, you only have to ask."_

"It's not that. We got off to a bad start-"

 _"-You might say that."_ Lucifer remarked with a smile.

"-And since I'm going to have to live with this voice in my head for a while things would go more smoothly if I stopped making death threats and actually tried to get along with you."

_"A good suggestion."_

"On one condition: keep yourself hidden. No doing anything that might make Dean or anyone else suspect something's not right. Nobody can know."

_"I was doing that already. I'm not keen to fight my brothers. It's not worth it."_

"Then we're agreed. Do you like coffee?"

  
* * *

Sam knocked three times and waited for Dean to open the door - he did so in less than ten seconds.

"I hate you, you know that?" Dean shivered. "I need eye bleach. Please tell me you have eye bleach."

"Here you go." Sam withdrew a book from a plastic bag and threw it at him. Dean caught it and eyed the cover with suspicion.

"…Supernatural? Carver Edlu- Sammy, this is  _not_  what I need right now. These things are tainted, you hear me? Tainted! With the badly spelled incestuous fantasies of a thousand screaming - how did you even find out about those, anyway?"

Sam shrugged. "Spend enough time in college, you hear about these sorts of things. Jess was into them a little, but that's not the point: check the title."

"Yeah, I get it, these are our lives-"

"It's  _Mystery Spot._  The one you don't remember most of. I skimmed though, and it looks like it's all there: all one hundred and two resets plus the months I lost after them. Everything I did with Ruby, so you can fill yourself in on the backstory. Check the reviews page."

"What?"

"It's on the inside cover. Look:" Sam used his index finger and traced the text, reading the quote out loud. "' _Easily the darkest book in the series, filling the reader with a sense of creeping horror and yet sympathy for Sam's desperate insanity.' 'Edlund's book gives a terrifying insight into the depravity a human can sink to when they have nothing left to lose.' 'A truly gruesome dark tale; not recommended for readers under 18.'_   Just a warning: those are accurate. You'll hate me after you've read this through."

Dean was suddenly treating the book as if it were a live mine set to go off if he applied the wrong pressure. "I… What? Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because you deserve to know. And because maybe after this you'll stop pestering me about Ruby: I'm out of it. I  _get_  it, and I'm never going to go back there again. I'm not touching that with a ten-foot pole. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pack."

"Where are you going?"

Sam continued stuffing all his miscellaneous items - laptop's on the bed, can't forget that - into what passed as a suitcase for him but was really just a tatty half-rucksack. "Somewhere. I'm not staying here while you read that book. I'll come back in a couple of days once you've sorted this ghost case. It's easy enough for you to solo. But I understand if you don't want to associate with me after reading that stuff, so I guess you can text me when you want me to return." He swung it over his back and put his hand on the doorknob.

"Sammy, of course I want you back."

"Read it and then decide. Text me your coordinates if something goes wrong on the hunt and I'll be there as soon as I can. Otherwise, leave it to cool a few days. I think it's probably best."

He let the door swing shut behind him and didn't look back, concentrating instead on the invisible angel in front of him.

_"Where do you want to go?"_

"Somewhere quiet," Sam whispered even though he was already out of sight and maybe earshot of Dean's door. "Where we can talk without people thinking I'm mad."

Lucifer nodded and vanished, and Sam felt the spin of control shifting between them. Then they were gone, and the corridor was empty.

  
* * *

This bed was comfy. Really comfy; too comfy, in fact, when Sam considered that he had no recollection of dozing off in a bed or even falling asleep. He tensed up and cast out the strange senses he'd had for a while now, the ones that gave him an idea of what was going to happen when, but they pinged weirdly and what they returned made no sense. He flicked his eyes open - no movement as far as he could see - and sat up, yawning against his will.

"Hello? Anybody there?"

He was in a smallish room, with a doorway but no door, a single window looking out into a haze of white fog, and he was alone. A bookshelf, desk, shelf - whoever had dragged him here had taken his laptop along too, how thoughtful - and a bed that he was currently in, just big enough for him but no larger.

He had never been here before in his life, but Sam was being assailed with deja vu like nothing he had ever felt. It was just so _familiar._

Realistically, there were two people in his life that could have done this, and the Trickster had promised no interference so that whittled it down to one.

"Lucifer?"

"I'm here."

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the wall and watching Sam with careful eyes. He was again in that form of the previous vessel Sam should really ask him about. His voice sounded so different, and Sam realised it was because it wasn't reverberating inside his skull like their mind-speech had been up until now. The angel was physically present and physically speaking.

"Where are we? How can you do- do that?" Sam gestured weakly at him. "I thought you needed a vessel to manifest."

"I do, mostly, but not when I'm not inside my father's Creation. This isn't."

"How is that possible?"

"It's not just possible: it's easy. Creation is infinite but it rests inside an even larger infinity of nothingness waiting to be shaped. The rules are different here, and I can appear as whatever I want."

"You're controlling this."

"Actually, you are." Lucifer waved at the room. "Welcome to your soul, Sam."

Everything clicked. Sam looked around with new eyes and suddenly he had no idea how he missed this before: everything was exactly how it should be. He even had those drawings of Mickey Mouse he'd made when he was twelve and then lost pinned to the walls. Lucky the stuffed rabbit was sitting at the end of his bed, and those books on the bookshelf were all his favourite books plus the ones on Law he'd grown to love in a studying-is-boring sort of way. Not a single thing was unrecognisable.

"I made all of this?"

"You copied it from your memories unconsciously. I wouldn't say 'made' is the right choice of word. But you could if you wanted to and knew how."

Sam got out of the bed, noticed he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt (he'd been pretty sure he had been wearing pyjamas but they had switched while he wasn't paying attention, it looked like), and cast his eyes over to one of the corners of the room where the paint was peeling and there were cracks in the plaster. "What's over there?"

"I'm working on it. Gabriel wasn't lying when he said there were cracks in your soul. But they were more extensive before, and it's hard to work on them from the outside."

"Well, come in then. There's a seat over there." He made a vague motion behind him to the chair he knew was now there, the one he'd had in his room at Stanford before it had burned, even though it hadn't been present before.

Sam traced his fingers over the cracks in the wall and it took him a while to register that Lucifer hadn't moved from his spot.

"What are you waiting for?"

"I'd rather not, if that's alright. You don't know what you asked for and I value informed consent."

"Well  _inform_  me." Sam hoped he injected just enough sarcasm into those words.

"I've been trying to keep our minds separate, and I won't be able to if I actually enter your soul room."

"…You're trying to keep us _separate?_  Could have fooled me, what with the staying around and the possession and such."

Lucifer crossed his arms and leaned a foot out to touch the other side of the doorway, stretching in such a way that he surreptitiously blocked the exit. Sam couldn't tell if it was a power play or not.

"You're still here, aren't you? You haven't been assimilated into my consciousness by the process of memory transfer - I've been delaying it as long as possible, and it takes quite a bit of thought to do so. If I take even one step across this threshold, I lose my grip and you as a person will cease to exist."

"I'll die."

"No, you'll live on inside me. It wouldn't be sudden at all; in fact, you'd barely know it was happening until it had. But I think I've correctly guessed that you don't want that, do you?"

"Hell no."

"As I thought." Lucifer let his leg fall so an exit was once again present. "We can talk here in absolute privacy, or as near to it as is possible to obtain outside of the Cage. To listen in they would have to breach my soul, which surrounds yours, and the only beings able to do that are my father and my brother Michael. Neither without my knowledge of the event. Whatever you have to say, I am the only one listening."

"Give me a second, this is just…" Sam was still trying to get over the fact that he was currently inside of his own  _soul_. "Does everyone have one of these?"

"Everyone with a soul, yes."

"So most humans."

"Yes."

"But they never see it, right?"

"No."

"Do you know if it's a similar size and shape for everyone? Because if it was that could indicate some universal cultural meme though humanity, but since we perform differently on perspective illusions depending on our environments it should be that-" Sam couldn't keep the interest out of his tone, which seemed to amuse Lucifer a little.

"It's different for everyone, Sam. I've seen rooms that weren't rooms but wide open spaces with invisible boundaries."

"Yeah, that would make sense. Whose rooms were those?"

"Previous vessels, mostly. It's rather hard to see the inside of another's soul room without either being invited or breaking down their walls, which is obviously highly forbidden."

"How forbidden?"

"Enough to throw me in the Cage for two thousand years to think about what I'd done. Though I think my Father was more disgusted by Lillith than trying to punish me for violating his morals; I'll tell you the full story sometime. But to keep it short, to break someone's walls is to make them a demon. It's what they specialise at in Hell."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"How does that make them a demon?"

"It's more a representation than an accurate model of what happens. But once your soul has cracked around you, you stare unprotected into the depths of the void. It twists you."

"How close is Dean to that happening?"

"Far away from it. His soul is cracked like yours, but there's a long while to go before that stage. It heals with time."

"And how- how close am I?" Sam almost couldn't bear to hear the answer. "Years? Months?" The cracks in the wall were suddenly more ugly and menacing than they had been before, and he could have sworn that he saw one of them grow the tiniest bit as he watched.

"Never. That won't happen to you. Even if this breaks, the void isn't on the other side. I am. You'd just assimilate into me, same as if I walked in here."

"Which you won't. Or can't. Can you?"

"I can. Consent isn't retractable." Lucifer tapped the doorway. "You can't remake this door."

"Fine. Just as long as you don't- wait, if we're both in here, what's out there? Who's controlling the body?"

"It's unconscious. I have wards that will tell us if anyone comes near. But they take energy, and I spent a lot in my fight with Gabriel. I need to regain it."

"What? Oh Hell no." Sam shuddered. "We are not doing that again. Ever. No. And if you force me, what we have now is  _gone_ , you hear?" His mouth tasted like iron just remembering.

"I know. But the problem is still there."

"Well, regenerate it on your own. We've both got souls. They're churning out energy; we can use that, right?"

"It wouldn't be fast enough. It would take six months at least."

"We have six months!"

"No, we don't. We have one at most. The seals are breaking faster than Gabriel and I anticipated. Without the Host's attention focused on defending them, and once they know I'm free, we'll need everything we have to evade them and I am  _not_  doing so on a shoestring of energy."

"How many are left?"

"Nine, at last count. Possibly eight by now."

"What?!" Sam's voice was panicked. "But how are they breaking so fast? The demons don't stand a chance against angels - how are they managing to get so many?"

"Incompetence, or sabotage from within. Not all of my brothers wish me sealed away; in fact, I felt one of them attempt to perform another ritual to break a seal today. He was, at least, cut off. But as I say we  _need_  more energy."

"Then we'll get it from somewhere else. Not a demon. We can tap into the energy the other angels use, can't we?"

"Are you actually suggesting-" Lucifer shook his head. "We can't approach the Holy Land, not without Michael feeling us breach the wards. We  _could_ , but our lives would never be the same."

"Then make another source. How does it work? Did God just dictate there's energy there or is it powered by-"

"-You. Three billion of you, all praying in the same direction, focusing on that one spot. An energy network spread worldwide. We could siphon off a little, I suppose, but we'd have to be very careful. The Host does not take lightly to its Grace being stolen."

"Then we do that."

"Or… I suppose we could make some."

"How?"

Lucifer vanished from sight.  _"You'll see."_

"Wait! Don't leave me here! How do I get out?"

Soft laughter once again inside his head.  _"How do you wake up from a dream?"_

  
* * *

She was crouched, hunched over in a way that would surely bring pain to her tired old back, on the pew. Her wrinkled lips moved, silently, but Sam did not need to watch them to hear what she spoke.

_"Please, God, give Rupert strength and blessings through this difficult time, and watch over him. Help him. Keep him safe."_

Over and over, like a record on loop. Praying. Sam stood near her, listening to the voices of her and the many others who sat in this church. Not one of them saw him. Not one of them could.

She'd been here last night, too. It was only a matter of time. Sam checked his watch.

The woman - Janice, a grandmother, two kids, one in intensive care after a road accident - was interrupted in her praying by the ringing of her phone. An older model, the ring-tone just loud enough to get annoyed looks and scornful thoughts of  _"Bringing that thing to church? How rude!"_  from the others. She hurried outside to answer it, as fast as she could with her walking stick.

_"Is this Janice Inglet?"_

"Speaking?"

_"Nurse Bryder, from the Toledo ICU. You wanted updates on your son's condition."_

"Yes. Is he, I-I mean, is it bad news? You said he might not-"

_"Quite the opposite. His vitals have stabilised, the test results for the MRSA just came back negative, and the infection is now responding to drugs. We're not sure what happened, and if you'll let me be unprofessional some of the doctors are calling it a miracle."_

"Oh! Oh, thank Heavens!" She was in tears now. "Do you know when he will, when he'll recover enough for me to see him?"

Sam made a decision and vanished for a split second.

 _"It shouldn't be more than a day or two. Hang on, wait- they say he's waking up? He's regaining consciousness! Rupert, can you hear me? Your mother is on the phone."_  Scuffling, then another sound, raw and weak.  _"Mom?"_

Sam left her alone and parted ways forever. He had already gathered the energy of her thankfulness, barely enough to cover the healing, though this story had touched his heart.

He'd never appreciated before how blasphemous people were in church. Half the ones with heads bowed weren't praying, just giving to outward image of it to make themselves look better. The couple in the corner with the five-year old sitting between them, the perfect suburban family - he was beating her, and she was praying that he'd stop before he hurt the second baby yet to be born. He was praying that his son would find his way, somehow, out of the hellish life of drink and gambling that had stolen his own future. The child was praying for an action man next Christmas, with an afterthought that he'd like Mommy and Daddy to talk again too.

They walked out that door ten minutes later with him swearing he'd repent, he'd never do such a thing again and he was so, so sorry - a snivelling pathetic sight of a reformed man, but one with absolute devotion rekindled in his eyes. Sam felt her gratitude swirl around his skin like a light electric breeze, the bow and arrow tattoo sinking back into the flesh of his hand.

_"You're enjoying yourself."_

Sam didn't glance behind - he already knew who'd be there. "It's… uplifting."

_"To each their own. I'd say we have enough for now. Do you want to stop?"_

"No. We can keep- what is that?"

It was the ear-piercing screech of a microphone tuned incorrectly, a jangling discordant note assaulting his ears, and covering them with his hands made no difference since it reverberated inside of his brain. "What is-"

He lost balance and fell but he wasn't even physical any more, Lucifer having taken over the body in one swoop and called his blade to their hands. The crowd of talking voices and the ringing gave way to blissful silence.

_"It's that bad?"_

"That's the sound of the Host talking. An angel is nearby."

_"We should leave."_

"They'll sense us go. We might be followed."

Lucifer sat down on a pew and let both the mind-reading spell and the light-bending spell around their body dissipate, slowly, as to not alert anyone to anything unusual. Any usage of power would attract attention their way.

 _"So that's our plan? Hide in a church and hope they don't question why I'm so far away from where I'm supposed to be?"_  Sam kept his eyes fixed on the door, though Lucifer kept the body's head bowed.  _"That's a terrible plan. They can all recognise my fa- whoah. No, it can't be."_

"Who is it?"

_"Marie? But we're in Ohio, that's states away, it's not- Give me the body, I need to talk to her."_

Back in control, Sam meandered over to where Marie had just sat down, head in hands and shaking like she'd just walked six hours in freezing cold.

"Are you all right?"

She didn't even seem to register it, so Sam put a hand on her shoulder gently. That she did register, and she shook it off angrily with a glare from haunted eyes. "Get away from me."

Her voice - it was nothing like Marie's, the accent pure American instead of French, but he'd know that face anywhere.

 _"It's her. She's the angel."_  Lucifer warned behind him, and he felt the stirrings of power ready to teleport the instant something went wrong.

"Marie? Is that you?"

"My name's not Marie. I don't know you. Get away from me GET AWAY FROM ME!" She flipped straight from a whisper to a panicked shout and stood up with the crash of a hymn book onto the floor, drawing almost every eye in the church. "You're not real. You're not real."

"Look, I need you to calm down, all right?" Sam tried to placate her but she got twitchier by the second. "Just a case of mistaken identity, that's all."

"The voices… They say you're a demon. Sam. Sam." She was now speaking in a monotone, and her eyes were glazing over.  _"King of Hell. Vessel of Satan. Demon. Demon."_

She bolted for the exit, and Sam really had no choice but to run out after her. Strangely, nobody tried to stop him.

  
* * *

Anna ran, out into the churchyard, away from the path and between the graves, trying desperately to reach the shade and cover of the yew trees just over there and the secret iron fence she could climb to escape. Inside her head, the voices went on oblivious to the thing chasing her. Talking and singing and planning and scheming and murdering - flashes of blood and corpses and pain. Today had been a bad day for them. They were upset; they were angry. They were out to kill.

 _Sam_ , the face on the human running after her, but also  _demon_  and  _meatbag_ and  _better off dead_  and  _Lucifer_. She couldn't tell if they meant it, but the voices hated him and feared what he could do. He was a monster. He would bring death and destruction.

Anna just wanted everything to go away so she could be normal again.

She eventually slowed, legs burning and chest heaving, blood flushing her cheeks, and snatched a glance behind her. Only nature. No humans. No demons. No  _Sam_.

Anna collapsed in a heap on the mossy root of one of the trees and wrapped her arms around herself, tears beginning to prick her eyes. The voices… They wouldn't shut up today. Screaming so loud she could barely hear anything else. Never acknowledging her. Just screeching about the traitorous act of one of their own.

"Anna."

She whipped her head around.  _Sam_  was standing there. In her frightened state, the gnarled trunks around him looked like searching hands erupted from the ground.

"No. No. No." She whimpered, shaking her head. In response he lifted both of his arms to show he was holding nothing.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Anna. I just want to talk."

"Go away." She scrambled back and staggered off again. He didn't follow. He just watched her go, shaking his head. She saw. She was looking behind her.

Then he disappeared, and the thing she ran into next was not a tree.

 _Sam_  had her arms pinned behind her back before she could do anything but yelp, and now it was impossible for her to get away. His grip was too strong.

Anna screamed but Sam tapped her neck and the noise died in her throat. She couldn't even speak.

"This is how it's going to work. I'm going to let you go now, and we're going to talk about what's going on in your head, okay?"

She shook her head wildly.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

How could she make him understand? He was a devil. The voices said so and the voices were never wrong - another flash of pain in her head as two notes clashed. He seemed to pick up on it.

"They're hurting you, aren't they? The angels?"

He knew. He  _knew_  what they called themselves and they knew his face. Maybe he was a hallucination too, like the doctors said the voices were.

With nothing else she could do, Anna nodded. Sam returned the nod and touched her temple, and then suddenly there was a silence she hadn't heard in months.

Anna gasped, realising she could, and slid to the ground as he stepped back and away from her. "Better?"

"I… How…"

"Let's start with the introductions. I'm Sam, but I think you already knew that?" She ignored the offered hand.

"You made them stop… All of them…"

"Oh, they didn't stop, I just turned the volume down. You can't hear them any more. Anna, do you know who you are?"

Anna had no idea how she could respond, but- "No. No I don't." Three months ago she would have. Now she wasn't sure.

"I didn't think so. Are there any places nearby we can talk out of the cold?"

"I- M-my parents'-"

"Wasn't talking to you, don't worry." Sam turned away from her to speak to thin air. "Somewhere with chairs, preferably. Not the church. Okay." He turned back and gripped her arm again. "Ssh. Keep quiet."

Then the hand pulled her away into nothingness.

  
* * *

They ended up in a quiet corner of the library, with cushions and beanbags and enough space around them that they could talk without being overheard. Anna was crying, and Sam wasn't sure if it was fear or happiness or probably a mix of both.

"I'm an angel?"

"I think so. I'm not sure, but-" Sam turned his head to watch an oblivious passerby lest they get too close. "Anael. That was your name. How old are you?"

"Twenty three and f-four months."

"That fits exactly. And with the connection to the Host, I can't see any other explanation."

"The Host? The other angels?"

"Yes. You're picking up a frequency they can all tune into or talk on. Angel radio. Normally they can turn it off so it doesn't distract them, but you can't, can you? How do you  _sleep_?"

"…I don't. Not much."

"I'm so sorry. I'll teach you how. It doesn't have to be this way."

"N-no!" She had seen the way his hand reached out for her. "Don't turn it back on. Just… Let me have a bit more silence. Please?"

"Sure." Sam withdrew.

"How did you find me? How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't. It was a coincidence that you walked into that church."

"It's my family's church. We go there every Sunday, and ever since the angels started speaking to me I've gone every day. Did you- did you know me from before? When I was an angel?"

"No."

"Are you an angel? I know, I saw the magic, but… the way they  _speak_  about you sometimes, Sam. They hate you. They want you dead."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not an angel, no." Then he amended, "Yet, at least. It's complicated."

"Then how did you recognise me?"

"…Even more complicated."

Should he tell her about her vessel? Marie had been searching all her life, but maybe it was best if they were kept away from each other.

Then his phone started ringing, right there in the middle of the library.

 _Dean_  was his first thought, and then  _the hunt went wrong_ , so he flipped it out immediately and answered without checking caller ID.

"Where are you?"

The voice on the other end was most certainly not Dean.

_"I-I don't understand. Is this Sam Winchester?"_

Dean didn't have a French accent.

"Oh, sorry Marie. Why are - I mean, is there something wrong?"

Anna made a 'who is it' gesture and Sam motioned for her to keep quiet for a bit.

_"Someone phoned us up and told me to call you, on this number. He said it was urgent, but he didn't explain why. He said you would."_

What?

"Did he give you his name, this man?" Who was it? Dean, Gabriel? Unlikely to be either, but he couldn't think of anyone else.

 _"He called himself Chuck Shurley, but he told me you wouldn't know him."_ Sam thought about it for a second. Nope, no bells were ringing.  _"I-is it just a hoax? He had your number, so I thought…"_

"No, not a hoax." He'd made up his mind. "In fact, I was just about to call you. There's someone I think you want to meet. Give me ten seconds."

He passed the phone over to Anna, who looked at him like he was mad.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Answer it."

"Okay…?" She held it up to her ear. "Hello?"

"I'm Anna. Sam just told me to talk to you, I don't know why - what was that?"

"No, I don't know anyone called Marie… I don't think we ever met before. Maybe when-" She put the phone down and whispered, "Sam, what do I do? She's just started crying and I don't- Sam?"

He had left while she was distracted. Anna eyed the phone with trepidation and slowly picked it up.

"…Look, today a lot of things happened and almost none of them got explained, so maybe you should start from the beginning? Who's Marie?"

  
* * *

_"You think it's best to leave them alone?"_

"Yes." Sam checked the sky - it would be nightfall soon, and it was shaping up to be yet another spectacular red-sky sunset. "I don't think they really want us listening in on their conversation." He was on a bench, with the bluetooth headset he'd picked up earlier today stuck firmly in one ear. He'd come up with that bright idea after being called out by a stranger on the street for talking into thin air.

_"We could be missing out on valuable information."_

"What, from an ex-angel who didn't know until today? I don't think so. Besides, they deserve their privacy. The whole vessel thing isn't something that you want…" How could he put this? "Spread around. I mean, it's kind of intimate." He finished lamely, suddenly very aware of Lucifer's eyes on him.

_"You think so?"_

"Uh… Yeah." Well, never thought he'd be making  _that_  confession to Satan. "Although that's probably the wrong word for it."

A man carrying a shopping bag walked up to the bench and put a hand into the empty space next to Sam. Lucifer artfully dodged to avoid it passing through him.

"Is it alright if I sit here?"

"I'm saving it for someone else, if that's okay…"

"No, don't worry, that's fine!"

Lucifer watched him until he was safely out of touching distance, then remarked:  _"Nevertheless, we should return soon."_

"Why? I bet they could talk for hours if we left them to it."

_"But once they get onto the topic of us… Anna knows about me."_

And Marie didn't. More than that, if she found out it could easily find its way back to Dean. "Good point."

Sam was the one in control, and he  _could_  have teleported again if he really wanted to (it wasn't that hard, though he did suspect Lucifer was controlling the navigation more than he let on), but the library was only about twenty feet away so he couldn't be bothered.

He pushed open the revolving door and made his way to the table between two bookshelves where he'd left Anna, to see her with shiny eyes and little tear tracks down her face. She was clutching his phone like a lifeline.

"I'm so, so sorry. Yes I do need to apologise! Look, Marie, I messed you up. You should have gotten married, had kids, had a life. Instead you ended up like you are now, stuck endlessly waiting - I want you to make me a promise. You need to move on, okay? Twenty-first century life is brilliant. Do whatever you want to do, just don't  _wait_  for me. And I'm promising you, now, that I'm going to leave you alone. No matter what happens, no matter if I become an angel again, I will  _not_  come for you. Never. Please." She looked up - she'd noticed Sam, and she hurriedly wiped her face on her sleeve. "So you can forget all of this and just live. Do it for me." She took a deep breath. "Bye, Marie."

With a tap, the call ended and Anna handed the phone back, then held her face in her hands. Sam sat down next to her.

"I'm a bad angel." she mumbled.

"No, you're not."

"Yes I am. I wrecked her. I didn't even consider-"

"You don't remember any of it. You can't be held to blame at all. Anna, this is important: what did you tell Marie about me?"

"What? Nothing… why?"

"She doesn't know about the… She thinks I'm human."

Anna perked up at that. "So you aren't, then? You have an angel possessing you. I worked that one out myself. What's his name? Or hers?"

"It's Sam." He didn't make any mention of Lucifer.

"Oh. So was he the one talking to-"

"No, we share the same name. It's complicated."

"Can I meet him?"

"What, right now?" Sam looked around - nobody paying attention to them. "Sure." He mentally extracted himself from the body, feeling a little like what a ghost must feel like climbing out of its corpse.  _"All yours."_

"So are you - oh  _wow_ , your eyes change colour. It's not even a trick of the light. So are you other Sam, then?"

Lucifer nodded. "I am. Anael, we need to find your Grace and return it to you. It should give your memories back; they must have been tied up in the energy."

"I- what? No, I don't want them. I don't want to be an angel. I'll keep everything a secret, I promise."

"The Host will find out about you eventually. They will capture you, torture you to find out what you know, and dispose of you once that is done to prevent you working against them."

"No, they wouldn't-"

"Angels know no mercy, Anael. Not even for family. The only chance you have is to regain your Grace, and be ready to defend yourself from their attack."

_"Tell her I'll help her find it."_

"My vessel will assist you."

Sam found himself pulled back in the body as Anna replied, "But how do we even find it? Wait, are you still there?"

"No, it's me. Normal Sam. And I will help."

"…Do all angels sound like that, or is it just him? It's like a mix between-"

"-Two hundred years ago and sometime in the future? I think so. They're not that well adjusted to humanity, I think."

"Oh God, did  _I_  sound like that before?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. Like I said, the rest of them don't exactly like me."

"Was it because of something other Sam did?"

"Yes."

"…What?"

"Defying orders, like you. Only worse. I don't want to talk about it. Now, we need to track down where your Grace went. There are computers here we can use. L-Other Sam is asking if you've ever had a special connection to any living thing, animal or plant. They're the only suitable hosts for it."

"I don't really know. Sorry."

"No problem." Sam led her over to the bank of computers and set about trying to log on. Anna typed her details in for him. "Now, what day were you born on?"

His fingers clicked over the keyboard as he lost himself in the familiar rhythm of research.

  
* * *

A shooting star, lasting over an hour. One over north-west Ohio, and one over a field in Kentucky at the exact same time on the exact date of her birth. A connection had already been drawn by some UFO conspiracy site so it wasn't too hard to find out details - they had pulled all the relevant information together, although he had to sort through junk about aliens and Area 51.

Heaven to Earth was a long way to fall. But still, over an  _hour_ … Maybe Anna should be glad she couldn't remember it.

_"It took me more than a day, when I fell. Hell is even farther away, though it wasn't yet made. The demons only populated it after I had been banished, to stay closer to me. Then there's the fact that time is not uniform."_

"What do you think, Anna?"

She peered at the screen, where there was a photo of a strange tree that had sprung up in a field the morning after the meteor - supposedly a disguised alien spaceship.

"It looks familiar, but I'm not sure…"

"Good enough. We'll check it out."

"But how are we going to get there? My driving licence got revoked, and I don't have a car, and-" Sam cut her off with an incredulous look. "What? They thought I was crazy. I  _was_. I hallucinated, and I could have killed someone."

"Not that. We don't need a car." He tapped his head. "Angel, remember? Let's head outside. It's too crowded for nobody to notice two people disappearing."

Five minutes later, they were at the site of the mysterious oak tree, the night sky glittered above them, and Anna was throwing up onto the grass.

_"The angelic part of her is rejecting your attempts to move her, supposedly against her will."_

"Are you okay?"

"I'm… fine…" she spat vomit from her mouth and wiped it with a leaf. "Do you have any water on you?"

"No, sorry."

"Is this-" She almost retched again, but caught herself at the last second. "Is this what it was like for you, the first time? I feel like death warmed over."

"It gets better."

"I hope so. …Okay, I think I'm good to walk."

Anna dragged herself to her feet and approached the tree. It was glowing, softly, in the starlight. There was no moon out tonight, and she shivered in the chill of winter air. Sam hadn't noticed how cold it was until he saw that.

"I can feel it. There's something in there." she whispered, awed.

"Go on, touch it. Take it. It's yours."

She hesitated, hand lingering only a few inches from the bark. Then she dropped it and turned back around.

"Is this going to kill me?" she asked. "Tell me the truth here."

"No. It's just energy and memories."

"That's not what I meant. Is this going to kill  _me_?"

"I don't-"

"I have a family," Anna cut him off, "And friends. Two parents who I love more than anyone else in the world. A hometown and an old school. To an angel, that's just pathetic, isn't it? I'm thousands of years old. I'm not going to care about who I am now. I might not actually die, but there comes a certain point where that doesn't matter. I won't ever be myself again."

"Listen, Anna." Sam stepped closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. "You might not remember what's locked up in there, but it's still you just as much as the memories you have now are. Your parents are important to you, so they'll be important to Anael too. She'll remember everything you are. You'll be yourself, just… more."

"But what if I'm not? What if I'm a bad angel?"

"Then you can change."

"I-" Anna stopped. Looked down at her hand, fingers spread wide. Then she whirled around and slapped it on the tree. "No second thoughts. Just…" She closed her eyes.

Silvery smoke, the colour of moonlight, seemed to emerge from the tree like fog lifting from the surface of water. It danced around Anna, kicking up a light breeze over the grass, and Sam stepped back to give her some room.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but she only swallowed the bright mist, inhaling deeply as it rushed into her.

"I… I remember. Do I? Yes. Yes, I do." The shivering had stopped, but her eyes shone like orbs of white. The glow had overtaken her pupils.

"Anna?"

"Samael. Of  _course_. That's why they hate you. How did I not see before? Lucifer."

She gazed down at her arms, which were beginning to shine.

"This body won't last much longer. It can't contain me; not at all."

"What will you do now, Anna?"

" _Don't_  call me Anna. That's not my name. I… You traitor, Lucifer. You betrayed us all, didn't you? You're the reason Dad left us. Because you were stupid; you messed everything up! He revealed himself to you, spoke to you, cherished you, and you take that for _granted?_ "

"It was the humans' fault!" Sam's eyes were glowing too, flashing blue with anger as his blade materialised in his hand. The other Sam, the real one, watched the confrontation invisibly from a few steps away. "You know what they did! There is  _no_  forgiveness possible for that!"

"But Dad forgave them. They were young; they had no idea what they were doing. And you're so cut up about it because he didn't forgive  _you,_  did he? You, older and wiser and in full control of your actions when you threw your little temper tantrum. You make me sick, Lucifer. I'm leaving."

Her body disintegrated into dust, which dispersed on the wind.

Then the sound of a car horn, somewhere was off in the distance, in the direction of the orange glow that stained the sky by the light of street lamps.

Silence again.

 _"What was that all about?"_  Sam asked.

Lucifer sighed, shook his head, and let him have control back.  _"I'll tell you sometime."_

"We have time." Sam touched the tree - it still shimmered, though there was no more Grace contained in there. It had absorbed enough over the years. "I don't have to be back until morning and I have nothing to do until then."

He tried to climb the bark, but the dew made it slippery so he gave up and flew, landing perfectly on one of the lower branches.

_"What do you know about the story of my fall from Grace?"_

"I've read  _Paradise Lost_ , if that's what you mean."

Lucifer crouched on a higher branch, too thin to normally support a human but his weight didn't bend it.  _"I was the best, the brightest of all the angels. Lucifer was just a nickname they gave me to reflect that. But one day, my Father decided it was time to reveal himself to the humans again. They had grown far beyond the primitive tribes of their past, into mighty empires that spread carnage in his name. I told him it would be a bad idea. He disagreed - he saw hope in you."_

"When was this? A hundred years ago? Two hundred?"

 _"Earlier. This body, this…"_  Lucifer looked down on himself,  _"Form, was the last vessel I took before being locked in the Cage. His name was Luke. Named after me, of course, like so many vessels are…"_

"Am I supposed to know him?"

_"You should. His story lives on in that book of yours."_

"Wait, Luke as in the  _prophet_? The guy who wrote the gospel?"

_"Four archangels, God's most trusted, were tasked with assisting and recording his descent to Earth in the form of-"_

"Jesus Christ. Holy shit, that was real?"

_"He ripped out what would be his Grace, separated himself from his memories, and let himself be reborn as one of his creations. It was the first time, ever, that it had been done. We watched from afar, but he forbade us to interfere. That was… broken, a little. By all of us; we couldn't keep him ignorant. He knew some of what he was, though he didn't know the full story."_

"And then what happened?"

_"You know, don't you? He was strung on a cross for treason, left between thieves to die in agony and alone. That is how humanity treated their God."_

"But that was supposed to happen."

 _"Nothing was supposed to happen. We couldn't predict the future, and he had left strict instructions to let events take their course. I had to watch my Father beg for mercy and do_ nothing _, but he still forgave you all. I never did. And that, Sam, is why I fell from Grace. You of all humans should understand."_

  
* * *

It was well past dark outside when Dean finally turned the last page of  _Mystery Spot_ , staring blankly for a while at the back cover before placing it onto the bedside table. He had a weight in his stomach he wasn't going to be able to shake; not for days.

He hadn't known. He'd gone by all these months, assuming after Broward County that everything would go on just as usual. Just something to laugh over as a hilarious joke. It had never hit him, the hopelessness of being trapped in the same day, unable to advance, unable to even end your own existence because if you did you'd just wake up with that _stupid_  song in your head-

To think Sam had barely even mentioned what he'd gone through, the things he'd resorted to trying to get out, the ones that reset as if nothing had happened. Then, the things he'd resorted to trying to get back, the ones that hadn't. The mistakes that had built up, that couldn't be undone any more.

Dean got up and headed for the bathroom to wash his face. No, he was  _not_  getting sleep tonight.

He was brushing his teeth when the power to the bathroom light flickered; once, briefly. He paused in his scrubbing and tapped it, but the moment had passed. Must have been a power surge. He would be on edge for the next few days, Dean thought to himself. Jumping at shadows after a horror movie.

Nevertheless, the feeling did not shake. A certain heaviness had settled into the air. Dean finished up and swung open the bathroom door, letting its light spill out and cast his shadow onto the carpet.

The bedroom was dark, silent, and filled with the sense of a  _thing_  watching him.

"Anyone there?" he asked. God, he was going to feel so silly in the morn-

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's right hand went for the light switch while his left unsheathed the knife he kept attached to his leg for emergencies, and he managed to get both before his brain registered the gravelly tone. The one he'd only heard twice before, but still he'd know it from anywhere.

"What the  _fuck_  are you doing here?"

Castiel sat - no, perched - on the bed that would be Sam's, watching him sadly.

"I did not know where else to go. Where is Sam?"

"Hell if I know, now get  _out_  of my room."

"I am not welcome." He frowned.

"Youthink? We're enemies, in case you didn't get the memo!"

"I am not your enemy, Dean."

"You tried to murder my brother. I think that counts. Why are you here?" His eyes rested briefly on the suitcase where the Colt was hidden. If he could just make his way over there-

"I did not know where else to go." Castiel repeated. On closer inspection, the crouch he was in looked more like a hunch than anything else, or an upright fetal position. "Heaven does not know where I am. This is not on their orders."

"Something went wrong?" Dean took a step closer to Castiel, and also a step closer to that suitcase, but he could disguise it well enough unless angels read minds. Which they did, but this one didn't seem to be doing at the moment.

"Angels do not have friends."

"I got that months ago, buddy." Another step. "You don't need to remind me."

"You misunderstand. Friendship is forbidden. It clouds our judgement and weakens our minds. Angels do not have friends, but if they did…"

"I'm not your friend, if that's what you're trying to say."

"Not you; another angel. His name was Uriel. I commanded him, but I respected him as well."

"You said 'was'."

"He died today, blade in hand, in battle against a superior foe." Castiel blinked, and then: "I killed him."

"What, so you went on an angel-stabbing spree? Not that I'm complaining, but-"

"I was ordered to. He had gone rogue, betrayed us, and as his commander the responsibility fell to me to stop him. And the things he was trying to do… they were monstrous things, Dean. I believed they were against the will of Heaven, and Uriel did too. So I sacrificed him for the greater good."

Dean gently eased himself onto his bed. The Colt was a few feet away, but from this angle would be impossible to reach quickly enough to surprise an angel with it. "Why come here, then? Aren't you a hero? Glad that your mind isn't all clouded by  _friendship_  any more?" From the way Castiel flinched, even an emotionally dead angel could pick up the scorn in his tone.

His eyes were downcast as he shook his head, and - was that a tear? It couldn't be. "After I had proven myself, my superior expressed his pleasure at how I had handled the situation. He said I was trustworthy. He told me a secret, saying he knew I would keep it."

"What was it?"

"That Uriel was right. Unknowingly, he had followed Heaven's plan. The only reason he had to die was because he had acted out of turn, had rebelled. I killed my best friend today, for no reason, and now I must go along with what he was going to do."

"You couldn't by any chance tell me what that is, could you?"

"I'm not allowed to say."

"Thought so, the way you were skipping about it. So, rough day, huh, Cas?"

Castiel flinched and consequently almost fell out of his crouch with surprise. "You shortened my name?"

"Well, yeah. 'Castiel' is a bit of a mouthful and the last parts of your names are all the same anyway. Why not? Has nobody ever done that before?"

"I…" He had a bewildered look on his face, completely different from how he'd been both times before and, dare it be said, almost human. "Can I stay here? Just for tonight?"

"Why?"

"The other angels are all forbidden to enter your presence without direct orders to do so. You or Sam. No unnecessary interference. And I can't stand the… the  _congratulations_ …"

"Ugh, fine. Just be gone by tomorrow morning." Dean tugged out the covers from the neatly made bed and set about worming his way into it.

"Can I watch you sleep?"

"What? No!" He flailed a hand in the vague direction of the sky outside. "Look out the window or something. Personal space!"

"Oh."

They stayed like that for about an hour, though Dean wasn't checking his watch and was instead trying to sleep. It was hard, with that uncanny heaviness hanging in the air. But his tired eyes were slowly and surely winning the battle.

"Dean?" Castiel whispered eventually. "Are you still awake?"

"…Sort of. What is it?"

"There's something I… I want to tell you about Sam. I'm not allowed, but… giving a hint doesn't count as breaking an order, does it?" His voice was pleading.

"Nah, of course not."

"Then… you need to watch him. Very carefully. Because… there's something else there too."

"What?" Dean shifted around to see him better, but Cas wouldn't meet his eyes. "What something else?"

"I can't say."

"Tell me. Nobody will know you're breaking a rule. Just-"

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"But-"

_"Go to sleep."_

That was the last thing Dean heard before he fell asleep against his will. The next thing he knew, it was morning, Cas was gone…

And the window was open, with an envelope on the floor just beneath it. It crinkled as Dean picked it up.

"What the-"


	14. Chapter 14

_I'm at the same motel room. Get back here as soon as you can. ~Dean_

After the bare minimum of time needed to not make himself terribly suspicious, Sam burst through the door and did his best to look like he was out of breath from running the whole way. "Dean?" He was sitting, looking at something. "I got here as soon as I-"

Sam was then hit in the face by a paper envelope that had been thrown over to him. He caught it before it fell to the floor and noted that someone had already broken the seal.

"Tell me what you think."

He removed the contents - one single, typewritten sheet of paper with no return address - and skimmed through the letter.

_Sam and Dean Winchester._

_Eight thirty a.m., the old children's park by the baseball field. Come alone. If you bring your angel friend, I will not show up._

_I have the rest of the recipe you need and wish to negotiate terms for handing it over._

_~C_

The initial was the only handwritten letter, scrawled fancily as a signature like it had been before.

"Where did this come from?"

Dean pointed to the open window. "There, probably."

"But we're three stories up."

"Exactly. Should we go?"

"This is a trap."

"Most likely, yeah." Dean shrugged. "We've only got a few minutes to decide, though. It's nearly eight, and we haven't even found the place. I guess he wanted us pushed for time."

"What does he mean by 'angel friend'?" Sam read through again. It was too ambiguous for him to know which angel that referred to, but if his fears were true that would mean they would have to go in without a pretty significant backup. They had established a while ago that this person was either a demon or a hunter; both were dangerous and possibly deadly.

"Cas, I think. We were talking last night. You know, Sam, he's not actually too bad. I think we might manage to talk him around."

"Does he know about this?"

"No. In fact, I think the reason this guy sent a letter now was to avoid Cas finding out. He probably saw there was an angel here and delayed giving the letter. That's why the timing is so rushed."

"So we're going?"

Dean nodded. "Don't have much other choice, do we? But we're bringing the Colt. And Ruby's knife. We go in armed to the teeth here, since we have no idea what we're dealing with. I don't like the sound of a 'negotiation'. Sounds too much like a hostage situation."

"What if he's not a demon?" Sam asked.

"Colt will still work on him. Or her. Assuming it's not another immortal pagan god, we're fine."

"But we don't want to waste bullets. What about if he's a vampire, or a zombie, or a ghost or a wraith or something like that? It's not worth shooting those things."

"Then we kill him like normal. No problem."

"You're going to drag a machete into this meeting and expect him not to notice? Bear in mind, we spook him out and he is  _gone_ , the rest of this recipe with it. Anything obvious will make him suspicious."

"Where are you going with this, Sammy?"

"I think we should bring the other knife along too. The one we found in the haunted attic - the one that kills dead things. It's small enough that we can conceal it better than anything else we have."

"Wait, you  _know_  I took that?"

Sam grinned at him. "You thought I didn't? You're pretty unobservant."

"But how-" Dean shook his head. "No, wait, I get it. Super freaky psychic abilities. Should have known I couldn't hide anything from you."

"I'll go get it out the car. With that, Ruby's knife, and the Colt - we're well enough covered. If it's just a hunter any of the three should work on him." Sam dug a set of keys out of his pocket, and turned back to the door.

"How are they, by the way?" Dean spoke from behind him, so he looked back.

"What?"

"The super freaky psychic stuff. Has it gone yet?"

"I don't think so." Sam closed his eyes, briefly, and yes - they were there, the by now familiar flickers of energy rippling around him. Brought from subconscious into conscious now he concentrated on them. "But it's fine. I'm used to them; they don't bother me. I don't notice them much any more."

"Good to hear. I'll meet you downstairs once I've packed all this up; after we're done here, I'm driving us back east."

"Sounds like a plan."

  
* * *

They arrived at the park three minutes before the scheduled time, and it was deserted. To be honest Sam couldn't have been happier at that - no children meant no innocent civilians running into dangerous situations.

Two minutes later, their contact showed up. He smiled with amusement down at the devil's trap drawn in the sandpit and stepped deftly around it. "Hello, boys."

"You've got your meeting. Now spill." Dean's hand was twitching periodically, as he tried to suppress the urge to draw a weapon. "And what are you carrying?"

The man looked down at the clay… pot? The clay urn held in his hands. He set it gently on the wood chipped ground. "Consider it a gift of faith."

"But what's inside it?"

"I'll tell you later. Now, shall we get down to the negotiations?"

Sam stepped forward. Dean repeated the action about half a second after but was stopped by a hand in front of him. "Let me handle this, okay?"

"But-"

"I didn't spend years at law school for nothing, Dean." Sam took another step, this time unaccompanied. "Lay out your terms. But our souls are off the table."

"Oh, I know that. With you two, the contracts are always… unusual."

"You're a demon." Dean stated flatly. The man nodded, and let his eyes flash red.

"Of course. Though Sam knew as soon as I appeared, didn't you? He can smell it." Sam started - none of them should know that, all the ones who could were dead - and the demon grew just a little more smug. "An acquaintance of mine informed me of your… weakness."

"A friend?"

"I wouldn't go that far. But we've collaborated. Our aims seem to be similar."

"Do you know his name?"

"Oh, Sam, if you haven't figured it out by now it's not my place to tell you, but you've met before."

"I know it's Loki. That's obvious." There was a slight shiver in the air, the sense of a shadow passing over the three of them before the sun was once again as bright as ever. "He's probably watching us now. But he has a hundred names - Raven, Teloc…" Sam felt himself regaining the momentum. "Did he tell you who he really is?"

"I was under the impression he is all of them. Am I working with incomplete information here?" The demon frowned.

"So he didn't. He's sending you on errands to do his dirty work for him and you have no clue who you're cooperating with. That's priceless." Sam turned and zeroed in on the little copse of trees not far away. "Good job." The tiny breeze that danced through the park just then could have been an answer, but then again it could have just been the wind.

Step one, breaking trust and confidence to gain a better negotiation position - complete.

"That doesn't have any relevance. What matters is that I have details of this recipe for a means of controlling an angel, and in return I want to extract a promise." The demon's eyes landed behind Sam. "Dean."

Sam stood his ground as he approached the two of them. "You haven't told us your name."

"I don't see how it matters."

"But what does the C stand for?" Dean asked.

The demon smirked. "Use your imagination."

"You know what?" Sam smirked right back. "I will. Let's make up a name for you  _right now_. Since your overlord has taken to calling himself Raven-"

"-He is  _not_  my overlord-"

"Why don't we call you  _Crow._ " That stopped the demon - Crow - short, as he paused and stared right into Sam's eyes. Sam let them shine blue, just for a second, making sure Dean wouldn't see, and outright beamed back. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

Crowley - because it  _was_  Crowley, Sam was sure of it now, what with that reaction and the sudden realisation of  _he knows_  - slowly nodded. "No, Crow is fine to work with."

Behind this all, Dean was getting more and more confused, but he was at least rolling with it.

"Then by all means." Sam took three steps back. "Go ahead. What are your terms?"

"Very well. Let me state my case." Crowley took in a deep breath and advanced. "I am somewhat of a peace-monger, you might say. The war between demons and angels, after the truce was held for so long, is an upset to a status quo I would prefer to keep. I am one of the guardians of the crossroads, and this climate is rather bad for business. Can't send my team above ground if they refuse to go and we're missing out on valuable sales."

"Demons can refuse orders?"

"Of course they can. We're not featherbrains here. The consequences are, of course, harsh - and that makes it all the more remarkable that we have so much mutiny."

"If you think we're helping you close deals for people's souls because the usual ones all scarpered," Dean said with a steely glint in his eye; this probably hit rather close to home, "Then you're all kinds of wrong."

"No, no. Quite frankly, if I employed either of you two I'd have to watch my back  _constantly_. I simply want an end to this war."

Crowley looked behind him, at the jar of whatever it was though Sam could smell it wasn't demon blood (and that was a relief). As if on a second thought, he went back to pick it up and carry it over.

"This is one of the ingredients. Holy oil, angelic Grace in liquid form, stolen from the temple of Jerusalem."

"You did that?"

"I'm not suicidal; a demon would be vaporized if they got within a hundred miles of that place. I'm not sure how Loki obtained it, but I understand the value of confidentiality. Here." He offered it up to Sam, who was closest.

Sam set it down beside him. Holding something that bulky would do no help in a fight, and they had no confirmation it wasn't some kind of bomb.

"If you light the oil on fire, the flame will burn forever and be a power source for almost any spell. Holy fire is also dangerous to angels, and they will die if they touch it or walk through a line of the stuff. If you want to, you can walk away now, with a powerful weapon. It's a goodwill gesture."

"Or?"

"Or you hear me out, consider my offer, and I'll tell you how to make what you're looking for."

Dean gestured that he wanted a look at the urn so Sam handed it over, watching warily as he removed the lid with a pop and a rush of air. "It's some kind of liquid." He dipped his hand in, and it came out completely dry. This prompted a raised eyebrow. "…Or not?"

He put the top back on and laid it, sideways, against the bark chippings. "Let's hear it out, then. We're listening."

"The weapon you are trying to build can control an angel. There is one angel, specifically, that I have in mind. You know him, Dean."

"Cas?"

Crowley grinned, then shook his head. "Michael."

"But what could- oh."

"Exactly. The angels are sworn to obey their leader. Take control of the orders, and we have the whole Host. We can command them to leave Earth, lock up Heaven. It's the fail-safe in place in case they overstep their boundaries, which has happened ten times over by now."

"So let me get this straight." Dean squinted up at the sky, even though he wouldn't know if there was anyone watching up there. "You want me to use this to appoint myself head honcho, seal all the 'good' angels away, and expect everything to go back to normal?"

"That's the idea."

"What with Lucifer busting out of his cage?"

"Oh," Crowley shot a brief look at Sam and gave a shrug. "I don't anticipate that being much of a problem."

"You mean… this thing would work on him too?"

"Something like that."

"Alright, done." Dean folded his arms. "Now tell us what else we need."

With a flourish Crowley pulled out a roll of parchment, or maybe it was stupidly faded paper, tied with a red ribbon in the most over-the-top bow Sam had ever seen in a serious conversation - the loops were large enough to droop around like wilted leaves. He slid the paper out of the knot and unrolled it to about Letter size..

"These are the instructions for assembly, once you have everything. You found a bow?"

"Yes."

"Then with the oil, there isn't much else. One of the Reaper's daggers and one of the Seraphim's blades." Crowley glanced at his watch. "To get a weapon from the Reapers, you'll have to kill yourself and then find one of them who will break their neutrality. Good luck with that. They use knives, small ones, that sever ties and drag spirits to their resting places. Death himself has a scythe that does a similar thing, but it's more of an… overpowered version." He checked his watch again, getting a little restless.

Sam put his hand in his pocket and Crowley was instantly on edge, but he didn't make a move and instead only watched as one small knife with symbols - Enochian symbols, Sam recognized them now, though he didn't know what they said - was drawn with the soft shimmer of rustless iron.

"Is this one of them?" It could kill what was already dead. That was a good enough approximation of what they wanted. Crowley was staring at it, almost in awe.

"Maybe."

"What do you mean?"

"The only creatures that ever see a Reaper's knife are those about to be taken to the other side."

"So you've never seen one?" Sam clarified.

Dean frowned. "But you're a demon. Doesn't that-"

"And so would you be, if you'd spent a few more years down there. Reapers aren't exactly involved in the… conversion process. Angels and demons are oil and water. May I?"

"It's iron." Sam warned, but Crowley reached his hand out regardless.

"If it is the real thing, it shouldn't harm me." He snatched it blade first and drummed his fingers on it, experimentally. There was no hiss, no screech of pain. "Where did you get this?"

"Found it in some woman's attic."

"It's  _rare_. You two have the most hideous strokes of luck. Here," He tossed it back almost carelessly, flicking it so it span through the air with the handle impossible to catch and Sam had to dodge. "Seems a shame to let it slip though my fingers, but I'll live."

"We just need a Seraphim's blade. What do they look like?"

"Like a big, pointy sword. You've seen at least one, I'm sure." Crowley rolled his eyes. "Angels are whipping their sticks out more and more these days. Should be easy enough - sweet talk round Castiel, or one of your other feathered friends. Just don't mention what you want it  _for_  or they'll smite you on the spot. Make up something. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm rather on a timetable, so-"

"Wait." Crowley had turned to go, but paused at Sam's words. "We've met before, haven't we?"

"Possibly. I don't keep tabs." He shrugged in a forced attempt to be nonchalant.

"No, we  _have_. At the crossroads."

"Sam, what-"

"Shut up Dean. That was you, wasn't it? Different meatsuit, but definitely you,  _Crow_." Sam dragged out the name, twisting the vowel sounds to leave no doubt he knew who Crowley was.

The memories had only recently returned to him, since he'd started working with instead of against Lucifer and the mind-block had in turn been lifted. Crowley shifted awkwardly.

"It seems to be coming back to me, yes. Did you have a query?"

"Didn't you scream like a girl back then?"

"I was  _acting_."

"Well, it didn't seem like it. Must have been some  _good_  acting."

Crowley scowled. "If you're just keeping me here to insult my professional demeanor then I must-" His watch started beeping. "-Oh,  _Kristo_."

He was gone without another word.

Dean exhaled loudly behind him. Sam did the same, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Woah. Sammy, remind me to never get on your bad side. When did you learn to talk like  _that_?"

"Took a hostage negotiation class, back in… Back in…"

"At Stanford?"

Sam didn't reply. He'd heard the tell-tale fluttering of a new arrival and sure enough, the wind picked up as someone else materialized in the clearing.

  
* * *

"Cas?"

"Are you hurt?"

Castiel had his sword - the blade they were probably going to need - and was flicking his eyes dangerously around the area.

"Why did you show up?"

"Are you  _hurt_ , Dean?" He repeated, and Sam could practically feel the power leaking off of him. Cas must have refuelled on Grace very recently, enough that some of it had escaped his conscious control and was spilling over into the air.

"No, I'm fine." Dean opened his mouth to say something else but shut up when Castiel dashed towards him, faster than a human and enough to make him flinch. His arm was grabbed and Castiel's eyes fluttered shut before flashing blue through the lids. "What the Hell?"

"I- You're not- I thought-" Castiel dropped Dean's arm and stared in confusion around the area. "I felt a demon in this place, just for the briefest instant."

"Since when can you do that?"

"Since last night. I placed a spell on the area. Did you-" He stopped, and directed the next question over at Sam. "Did you see the demon? Sense it in any way?"

Sam frowned and shook his head. "No idea what you're talking about."

"Yeah, no demons here, Cas." Dean joined in. "You sure your radar is working okay?"

"I… I must have been mistaken." Cas took a step back and gave a nod that was more of an apologetic bow. "Forgive me. I will depart."

"Wait, don't go! We need to ask you something." Dean took a deep breath, and Sam could almost see the cogs in his brain working to spin up an acceptable lie. "Could we borrow your sword?"

"My… sword? My blade?" Castiel called it to his hand again and let the morning light glint off of the metal. "Why do you need it?"

"I just thought… if Zeke shows up again and you're not there to help it might come in handy. Or if we need something to fight off Lucifer after he busts out."

"Ezekiel will be weak enough by now that any weapon will dispatch him. And Lucifer will not die by this blade's hand. I am sorry, but if he is freed he will not be so easy to kill."

Dean shrugged. "Alright, fine. Let's be honest here."

"Dean, what are you-"

"We need your sword so we can make a weapon. One that controls angels. We want to seal up Heaven."

Castiel's response was dumbfound blinking. He seemed to have a thing for blinking. He must have recently discovered it and the novelty had yet to wear off.

"No, seriously. Cas, I'm being serious here."

"But there isn't any weapon that can do that."

"How would you know?"

"They would have told us." Castiel stopped, suddenly re-evaluating what he'd just said. "Wouldn't they?"

Dean grinned. "I'm afraid not. See, we have it on a reliable source-" It was his turn to re-evaluate then. "Actually, we have no  _clue_ how reliable our source is, but I'm pretty sure it's true. Sam, show him the bow."

Sam acted on cue to bring the Cupid's bow out, letting Cas stare with bewilderment, and then in slight terror as he followed up with the Reaper's knife.

"Where did you find those?" His eyes had gone huge, like he was afraid he'd be next on the list of angels slain for their weapons.

"Doesn't matter. Check what's in the jar."

"…Holy oil? But this… This is impossible…"

"Nah, it's just us. But an angel blade is the last thing we need. So what do you say, Cas? You ready to help us seal up Heaven and save the world?"

Cas backed away, shaking his head. "This is treason."

"You said it yourself, the leadership in Heaven is a sham. You've gotta rebel, Cas. Throw down your sword and join us."

"No!"

His shout cut through the area and sent pigeons fluttering off from a tree not far away, drawing his attention for a split second. Dean used the opportunity to lunge for the angel blade, but it was no use. Castiel was far too fast and swung it around in an arc, nearly slicing Dean's hand.

"Cas, please-"

"This is  _treason_. I could be banished for even  _thinking_  about this. Why did you have to do this to me?!"

"Listen-"

"I am a  _good_  angel, Dean Winchester. Farewell."

Dean saw it coming, but he was too late to stop it as his hand closed over the empty space where Castiel's arm had been half a second before. He let it hang there, reaching out into the air, before dropping it to his side.

"Great. Just great."

"You spooked him, Dean. What was that all about, anyway?"

"I just thought he'd… I dunno; last night he was more into the rebellion thing. Today not so much."

"Yeah, you pushed him too hard." Sam gazed up at the cloudless winter sky. "Is he going to report us?"

"Well, we haven't been smited… Smited? Smitten?"

"Smote."

"We're not smote yet, so that's a point for the no team."

"But that's a dead end. Cas isn't going to hand it over." Sam sighed. "Funny, I was actually hoping this might be easy. What do we do now?"

Dean crossed the playground to pick up the sheet of parchment that Crowley had left behind, the one with the instructions written on it. "As far as rituals go, this one looks easy. Light the holy oil and chuck everything in the fire. …Also, who even types on parchment?" He held it up so Sam could see the typewritten letters, inked into the animal hide. "Demons, man."

"Where are we going to get the blade, though?"

"Well, unless you've got an angel stashed up your sleeve or we catch another lucky break in an attic, I say we ignore it all and head back to Bobby's like I said. We might be able to talk Cas around if he flaps down here again."

"And if we can't?"

"Devil's Gate, I suppose. See what we can scrounge up from the battlefield, and try not to get smote." Dean yawned, exaggerating the movements and letting his breath frost out in front of him. "If we head off now we might be there by tonight. Come on."

  
* * *

The Impala rumbled along the road and Dean was in his element, that determined, cocky smile back in place on his face. The radio was playing some type of pop with a catchy tune and indiscernible words, and Sam was  _bored_.

Fourteen hours' car journey had never been so dull.

The worst thing was, if he didn't have to keep up this stupid charade they could both be at Bobby's in seconds flat. Hell, he'd had enough practice that it would probably be under a second by now. Then there was the fact that he couldn't actually talk to anyone, since Dean was humming along loudly enough to distract mental speech and he couldn't exactly physically talk to the angel in the back seat.

_"We could always wipe his memory."_

That was true. Bobby wouldn't know what time they'd set out. A month ago - scrap that, five days ago, Sam wouldn't have even considered it. Now he was struggling to come up with a reason why not.

The clouds blew past, the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the needle on the fuel gauge ticked lower.

And lower.

They'd have to stop soon for gas.

Sam got out when they did, and stretched his legs while Dean filled the tank and bought a plastic bag full of various different types of junk food. He was struggling to care, as he got an outsider's look at the life he'd been living the past few years. Driving, stabbing the ghosties and ghoulies, driving again. Utter boredom interspersed with cheap adrenaline thrills.

 _"You're beginning to understand, aren't you."_  It wasn't even a question any more.

He was sitting at a picnic bench with a used coffee cup underneath it, and the air around him was just on the pleasant side of cold. The biting chill of the morning was gone.

"You take over." He shoved himself out of the body and let himself float gently on the top of the grass.  _"Wake me up when we've arrived wherever we're going."_

Screw physical reality. There was only so much countryside Sam could take before he went insane.

He shrugged off the covers and put his now bare feet onto the soft carpet of the room. Everything still familiar. Laptop, check. Books on shelf, check. Clock on wall - that was new. It wasn't a conventional clock. It seemed to be counting down to some unspecified date or time somewhere in the future. The cracks in the wall were smaller than he'd last seen them, and they did seem to be healing.

Picking a book at random from the shelf, he levered it out with his thumb and forefinger and began flicking idly through the pages. He'd read it before, three times, when he was about thirteen. Some stupid paranormal book that got the facts all wrong, but it had obviously stuck with him somehow. After all, it was here.

The problem with children's books, Sam mused, was that when the child reading them grew up to be an adult the book would never be quite as good as it was remembered to be. Little flaws, one-dimensional characters and nonsensical plotlines were all ignored by a kid discovering the joys of reading, but not by him now. He skipped the introduction - boring - tried to read a bit of the action scene he'd really loved - boring - and gave up, jamming the book back onto the shelf and searching for something else to do.

The laptop had no internet, even though it did have some kind of database on it he had no clue how to use and quite frankly wasn't interested in.

This was his  _life_. Why was it so boring?

Sam took another look at the cracks in the corner of the room. Then at the empty wall next to them. He searched for a pen and saw one, the exact one he'd imagined, on the desk about a foot away from his hand. Black ink, permanent marker.

Probably not permanent here. But then again, Sam wouldn't be too bothered if it was - nobody else would see it.

He raised it, threateningly, and swooped it over and down in a wide arc. The pen left a curved mark, and the sense of satisfaction Sam got from watching it was rather like the one he got when he'd set fire to the origami sculpture it had taken him weeks to make in 9th grade. Destruction was oddly fun.

  
* * *

"Sam."

He snapped out of his stupor and jumped, guiltily, at the voice behind him. By now the wall was a mess of scribbled lines, of the type that someone would read some deep meaning on the nature of life into if he left it outside an art museum. Sam had been aimless at first, but halfway through had tried to convert what he'd already done into an actual picture and just ended up obscuring the wall even more.

He turned his head. "How long has it been? Are we there yet?"

"Three hours. No." Lucifer answered. "Dean thinks we're sleeping."

"We kind of are, aren't we? Not much of a lie. So why did you ditch the body? Are you bored as well? I'd have thought prolonged periods of waiting were kind of your thing."

"I wanted to check on you. What are you trying to draw?"

"Angel wings." Sam traced the outline of what was meant to be a feather, but was more of an elongated blob with a line through it. "Not that I can; I have no idea what they look like."

He bristled, expecting some kind of rebuke for doing something so careless to his soul, but what Lucifer said in reply was only "You're drawing them wrong."

"How?"

"You're trying to put feathers on them." Lucifer traced the outline of something in the air. "We were created long before birds were. The shadows of our wings on this earth at any moment in time are jagged at the edges; your kind mistook them for feathers, but they're nothing like that."

"Then they're like bat wings?" There was irony in that statement, somewhere.

"No, they don't have a clearly defined area. They're only ripples in a fabric caused by a concentration of Grace."

Sam sighed and started scribbling over the drawing. "How do you even draw that?"

"You can't. They're impossible to describe in fewer than four dimensions."

Sam pulled another pen out of thin air and with a flick sent it flying straight at Lucifer's head. He caught it with an inhuman movement and gave it an odd look.

"I don't understand."

"You're going to help me draw them. I want to at least get a rough idea of what they're like. Right now."

"I can't enter."

"Yes you can. Come on in."

He turned back to the wall but listened out for the - yes, there it was, the soft thud of a footfall on carpet as Lucifer stepped over the threshold. Sam had expected some kind of sensation, maybe cold, but there was nothing. He didn't feel different at all. "Come on; we don't have all day. …Actually, we do. But it still stands."

"Why?"

"Because I'm bored." It was more than that - he was  _tired_  of it all. But he couldn't articulate it into words, so Sam just shrugged. "How long does it take?"

"Our memories merge almost immediately." Lucifer's voice was flickering in and out of tone, and when Sam turned he saw his own face staring back at them. "I can't keep this form up now we're like this."

Already, it seemed that the light in the room was a little brighter, like a lamp warming up after being turned on.

"Are we talking hours? Days, weeks? I don't know what counts as 'almost immediately' with angels."

"Hours, possibly a day."

"And after that?" He was supposed to die off, fade beneath the weight of thousands of years.

"It's not known. No archangel has taken their true vessel before this."

"Right." Sam nodded. "Now help me with this thing." He eyed the wall with a critical eye and a wave of his hand, sweeping the pen clear. "Let's start with the basics. Do they have a shape?"

"See for yourself."

There was something at the corners of Sam's eyes. A heat haze, almost but not quite. Intangible but not silent. He tried to move it but he had no muscles there, but as he took a step forward it rustled softly along with him. "Is this-"

A sudden, sharp, shooting pain behind his eyes. Sam cried out and staggered, filled with the sense that something was very, very wrong.

"You feel it too?"

"Yeah. Is-"

"Then it's physical." The body.

Lucifer flew out, Sam only half a second behind.

  
* * *

The sun was shining, birds were singing, the engine was purring, and  _Eye of the Tiger_  was playing on the radio. Nothing could be more right with the world.

Then a meteor fell out of the sky and landed on the road ahead.

Dean screeched the brakes as hard as he could and he saw Sam, who had been sleeping in the front seat, jerk awake and drag in a desperate breath before the airbag floofed out and knocked the wind from both their chests.

"Dean, it's a-" Sam coughed, "It's an angel. We have to get out of here."

"Screw that." He pushed open the door and got out, his legs burning from sitting down so long. The tarmac barely five feet from the front wheel was cracked and shimmering with heat, and in the center of the blast radius was some guy's charred body. "What the Hell just happened? How do you know this guy's an angel?"

"Because I recognize him. Different face; same person." Sam wriggled out of his side of the car too and approached, with caution. "It's Ezekiel."

"Of all the places he chooses to land, it's right here - what are the  _chances_  of-"

"He was aiming for us, Dean." Sam closed his eyes and shook his head as if to chase away ringing in his ears. "We were his last hope."

"How do you know all this, anyway?"

"It would take too long to explain. He's alive. Barely." Sam picked up the badly burned but somehow still breathing corpse and slung it over his shoulder like it was nothing. "We have to get him out of here, out of the open, before someone figures out where he managed to escape to and the Host comes back to finish the job."

It was all happening too quickly, and Dean had no clue what was going on. He felt badly out of the loop.

"But-"

"Someone's coming. They sent a scout to check if he went this way. They'll be here soon." Sam's eyes were still screwed shut. "It's… I think it's Cas. Either that or someone called Thursday."

Dean was saved from having to come up with an appropriate reply to that when Castiel did, in fact, appear in the very center of the blast radius where Ezekiel's body had been lying before.

"What happened?"

"Ask Sam; I've got no clue."

"Sam, what - is that-"

"Yeah. It's Zeke. You going to take him from us, Cas? Drag him back to the camp upstairs?" Sam hefted Ezekiel's body around so he could reach the knife in his side pocket. "Be a good angel like you said you were?"

"I follow orders." Castiel's blade appeared and he took a step forward, then two, and he was shaking from something that if Dean didn't know better he'd mistake for nerves. "My orders are to try to capture or kill the rogue angel Ezekiel."

"You don't have to listen to them, Cas." Dean stepped between him and Sam, hands raised to show he had no weapons. "Just leave it. Nobody will know."

"But I- But I have to follow my-" Cas gulped, and drew in a shaky breath. "My orders were to try to kill Ezekiel. I have already tried once before. I was not ordered to try again." He was still shivering with what was now undoubtedly nerves. "Is that - can I do that? Can I-"

"Good on you. Following them to the letter. You know what, Cas? I kind of  _like_  you. You're a cool guy." Dean grinned and Cas smiled back a little at the praise. "You go back to whatever you were doing before. Don't let them catch you. Just act normal - we'll take it from here."

"No, wait." Sam said. "Can you teleport everything here to Sioux Falls, Ohio? We need to get Ezekiel to shelter."

"Dude, we're not that far away, there's no point."

"We're six hours away, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. "Six hours of possible firestorms on our heads if the Host gets wind of our fugitive. I vote we take the short route. Cas?" He looked the angel straight in the eye and spoke without speaking:  _"That's an order, by the way."_

Castiel flinched and the smile fell off his face, but he nodded.

"That's settled. Dean, get in the car. It's easier to transport things if you can treat them as one entity. Come on."

  
* * *

They arrived at Singer Salvage yard with only a disturbance of air, and by the time they'd gotten out of the car Castiel was nowhere to be seen.

"Weren't we going to ask him about handing over his blade again?" Sam asked as he hefted the still-unconscious body of Ezekiel. Dean shook his head.

"He'd back out again. He's not ready. Besides, we've got all we need right here. Zeke knows you, you dealt with him before, he hates the other angels, and if he's not our best shot at this I don't know what is. Are you okay with this?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were pretty anti-Zeke before. Called him evil and such."

"Oh. Well, I changed my mind."

They knocked on the door and it took nearly a minute for it to open - their arrival hadn't been noticed. Bobby emerged with a spray bottle and gave them both a good drenching. The water was holy water - Sam could taste the slight buzz on his tongue.

"What did you do that for?" Dean wiped his face on his sleeve. "I swear you just soak us for kicks now."

"Wouldn't do that. Come inside, you two. Who's the man?"

"Angel, you mean." Dean cast a quick glance at Ezekiel and took in the state of his body. "He's healing, fast. We have no clue when he'll wake up, but we need to be ready when he does."

"You still have that panic room, right?" Sam asked. "We can put him there."

"One of you boys is going to have to explain this to me, you know. What happened out west? Did those hunters get out okay?"

"They're dead. Sorry we didn't tell you; been busy. I'll drag Ezekiel down to the basement; Dean will fill you in on everything." Without waiting for a confirmation, Sam started carrying the body inside. Bobby watched him go with a cross between amusement and exasperation on his face.

"You're a right lot of trouble, you two. An angel? What did you do, capture it?"

"He fell out the sky onto our heads. What? It's true. Give me a second; I've got to get the holy oil from the trunk. We have no clue if he's going to be violent when he wakes up."

"As long as you don't destroy my house, ya idjits!" Bobby yelled after him.

  
* * *

 _Trap, Stop, Bind, Guard, Protect, Hide_ …

For the second time today, Sam drew on the walls with permanent marker. He wasn't writing English. He had no clue what he was writing, only that the symbols flew from his pen like he was fluent in Enochian. Which he was, by now.

On the cot, Ezekiel still wasn't stirring. His Grace was almost non-existent. It flickered inside him like a candle flame nearly burned out, and he lay there barely breathing. Upstairs he could hear the creaking of feet on a floor that told him he'd be alone for a little longer.

"Come on. Wake up."

No response, of course. Sam sighed and put down the pen, splaying his hand out and concentrating.

_"We don't have enough to spare."_

"Of course we do." Over his palm, a tiny bead of light began to gather. "It's not like we're giving away much. Just enough to get him talking."

With a flick of his wrist he let go of the light and sent it floating down. When it got to an inch from Ezekiel's face, it stopped, then flashed from white into pure blue. He breathed it in in a sudden, jerking breath.

Sam felt a headache building up behind his eyes, the result of too little energy to push back the aches and pains of the way he'd been forcing the body to perform beyond its limits. "Ow."

_"I told you it would be too much. Let me."_

The pain dulled as he was pushed out of control and landed softly in spectral form on the floor. Lucifer walked around the room, inspecting the symbols with a critical eye.

"You've drawn them well, but nothing here applies to archangels."

_"Do we really need that? I don't want us affected."_

"Michael and Raphael, at least. Here." He picked up the pen and, in a practised motion that spoke of how he'd done this multiple times before, added two name-symbols to each circular array.

_"That's another thing. Why circles? It just makes things harder."_

"No reason." Lucifer turned smoothly to watch the doorway, where Sam himself could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. "Hello, Dean."

"So is he - woah." Dean stopped short as he crossed the threshold, taking in the new decorations. "Did Bobby put those up?" He noticed the pen Lucifer was holding. "Wait,  _you_  did that?"

"Yes."

"They don't look like any of the angel banishing sigils I've seen."

"That's because they're not. We're not trying to banish Ezekiel, after all. These are trapping, binding and protection wards."

"And you're sure they work?"

"Yes."

"Right." Dean touched one of them and jumped back when it began to glow softly. "Okay, that's  _creepy._  How do you know how to make these? Nobody ever taught us and I bet you anything the info's not on the internet."

"I had help from the Sudre family." Lucifer replied smoothly, his eyes daring a challenge. Sam shook his head wildly.

_"No! Don't say that, don't bluff! He's going to call us out on-"_

"-Well, you won't mind if I phone up Pierre and check, then?"

"Of course not. Go ahead."

Dean kept his eyes fixed on Lucifer, slowly pulling his cell out his pocket and scrolling through the contacts list without looking down. He pressed a number and held it up to his face.

"…Oh. Yeah, no signal down here. I'll head-" He was cut off when Ezekiel shot up in the bed, gasping in a huge breath with wild eyes before slumping back down. "Zeke! Crap, we need to get the holy fire going, now!"

"No need. The wards will keep him bound. Holy fire is too destructive. Ezekiel, can you hear me?"

"It's you…  _You…_ "

"Yes, it's me. Do you remember the deal we made?"

"Of course I do; how could I forget…" His eyes swivelled through what Dean must have thought was empty air to land on Sam. "Sam, you have to forgive me."

_"He can see me?!"_

_"I'm letting him, for now."_

_"We need Dean out of the way. Give me back control."_  Sam didn't wait for confirmation, taking it back and looking around. "Dean, go get Bobby. Tell him Zeke's woken up."

"You're okay alone with him?"

"He's not going to hurt me." Sam watched him all the way to the base of the stairs and then shut the panic room door for good measure. "Right. We need to talk, Zeke."

"Forgive me…"

"Whatever it was, consider yourself forgiven. Now I have a killer headache, and I want to get this through with as quickly as possible, so here's the thing: you need to give us your weapon."

"Can't…"

"Stop talking like that. Sit up. Can't, or won't?"

Ezekiel sat up. "Can't. I don't have it any more. The demons took it when they captured me."

"It's in Hell?"

"No, the Host recovered it. They can't have demons with the ability to kill us. It's in Heaven."

"Well. That's just  _great._  What do we do now?"

_"Ask him if he can get it back for us."_

"Can you get - wait, can you hear what he's saying to you?" Sam gestured to the empty air where Lucifer was standing, having taken on Sam's form, though it made him feel like he was being watched by his own ghost.

"Yes. Yes I can get it back." Ezekiel swung his legs over the side of the cot and began to place weight on them, shakily. "I was trying to, but they found me and I barely escaped to here. Thank you for gifting me your Grace; I have enough to try again."

There was banging on the outside of the door, so Sam swung it open. "Dean, we've got some-"

"Why'd you shut the door?" Dean was in the lead, with Bobby hanging back.

"I wanted him talking. Look, he's agreed to help us. Zeke, when are you leaving?"

"As soon as I can. I am healing, but… it will take an hour or two before I am back to somewhere near my full strength. You are Michael's vessel?"

Dean took a small step away. "So what if I am?"

"I see it in your face. It is the face of the one who has ordered me dead."

"Tough luck, because I'm not him." Dean checked the wards scrawled around the room. "Sam? You sure these will hold if Zeke flips out?"

Ezekiel shook his head. "You misunderstand. I want to thank you. Without your resistance, there would be no hope for me and those like me; the ones who rebelled. You're our rallying point now. You and him." He nodded at Sam. "I need to rest. You may leave me here alone: I cannot leave this room."

"Like we're believing that. Bobby, can you watch him for a bit? I need to talk to Sam. Alone. Come on, Sammy, upstairs."

Sam trailed after his brother, apprehension coiling in his stomach and the blinding headache still throbbing in his brain. They ascended to the first floor and walked out the front door, ending up leaning against one of the junk cars being cannibalised for parts.

"Beer?" There was a six-pack gathering dew in the shade, and Dean offered him one. Sam held it but made no move to open the top.

"What's this about?"

"You. Sam, you knew that demon - Crow?"

"His name's actually Crowley. I just called him that to upset him."

"See? That's what I mean. You know too much; I have no clue how you knew it was Zeke out on the road, but I'm assuming you're tapping into something. Angel radio?"

"You know about it?"

Dean grinned. "Not until just now. But the thing is, that's gotta be playing havoc with your brain. Have you seen how you look these days? It's afternoon, and you have a hangover face. I've kind of got used to the strange and weird and downright creepy from you, but if something's hurting, you gotta tell me."

"I'm fine. Dean, you just gave me beer. You thought I looked like I had a hangover and you decided to get me  _drunk_. Not thinking through this much, are you?"

"Eh, lots of things in life can be solved by alcohol. By the way, I phoned up Pierre and you're in the clear. He says he was giving you lessons. Sorry for doubting you."

It took a second or two for that to register. "I… What?"

"I'm not apologizing  _twice_ ; once is all you get. He confirmed he's been teaching you angel-language. Oh and he also said you should call him as soon as you get the chance."

Sam pulled out his phone, confused beyond all Hell. "Do you mind if I take a walk to answer this?"

"Go ahead. Keep secrets all you want, Sammy. I don't even care; just as long as you can handle whatever it is."

"Why are you being so nice and hands-off all of a sudden?" Sam was suddenly struck by suspicion. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. I had a chat with Bobby, that's all. He thinks I was being too pushy before. And then there's the book."

The book. Sam had forgotten, and remembering sent a shock of anxiety down his spine. "You read it?"

"All the way through."

"And?"

"Day seventy-three - definitely the best part. Utter badassery. You didn't even care." Dean flashed his trademark grin, and Sam returned with a small smile.

"Which one was that? I can't remember."

"The one with the chickens on the rampage where I got crushed under the massive pile of feathers."

"Not the one where we almost caused nuclear war?" Looking back on it made it sound so much more hilarious than it had actually been.

"That was sixty-eight. Best two days ever. Shame I can't remember them."

Sam couldn't help it - he snorted with laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. "But seriously. You're not angry?"

"Wasn't your fault." Dean shrugged like that made it all okay. "I get it now - you're not a kid any more. So I'm trusting you to sort whatever it is out on your own. But I swear there will be Hell to pay if it turns out you really should have told me what you're not."

"We'll deal with that when it happens."

"When?"

"…If."

"Great confidence vote, there." Dean, having finished his own beer, reached out and grabbed Sam's. "You should phone. He sounded pretty desperate."

  
* * *

_"Hello. Speaking?"_

"Hey. It's Sam. Uh…" What should he say? 'Why did you just cover for me?' It sounded like an accusation even in his head. "You said you wanted to talk."

_"Who is Chuck Shurley?"_

"Chuck who? Never heard of him." The name wasn't familiar, not at all. "What's happening, Pierre?"

_"He called ahead of Dean; told me exactly what to say. Sam, what's going on? How many seals are left?"_

"Five," He answered without even thinking. "How do you know about that?"

_"It's in the texts. But with this and Marie-"_

"Something happened to her?"

 _"She disappeared last night. There was light and broken glass."_   Sam knew exactly what that meant; they both did.

"I'm sorry."

 _"It's not your fault."_   It was.  _"But the man who phoned-"_

"Did he have a name?"

_"Chuck Shurley, like I said."_

"Sorry, I don't know him." Sam hadn't ever heard that name before. "What did he say?"

_"He said you had a plan to stop all this. Do you, Sam?"_

"I think so, yeah. But I'm not sure the phone lines are safe. Look, don't worry about anything. If we do this right, everything gets better. If we screw up, we'll all be too dead to worry."

_"That's-"_

"Gotta go, sorry." Sam ended the call and started back towards where he'd last seen Dean. Five seals left. They needed to hurry up and make this thing.

  
* * *

Sam rounded the corner and saw his brother talking to someone else, their back to him, wearing a trenchcoat-

That was all he had time to register before they disappeared, and Dean spotted him, waving him over.

"Was that Cas?" He asked, jogging through the heat haze of the afternoon. "What did he want?"

"Just checking in with us." Dean's slightly guarded tone told Sam there was probably more to it than that, but he'd be a hypocrite if he didn't let his brother keep secrets. "Let's go see Zeke and check when he'll be able to get us our sword."

They trekked inside and downstairs, to see one angel pacing the length of the panic room while Bobby watched from outside. Ezekiel didn't stop his feverish walking when they entered.

"You recovered?" Dean asked.

"Yes. I can leave now."

"Just go. We're not stopping you."

"The symbols… I can't leave." He put one hand up against the doorway and a thread of light spun around it. "It's disconcerting."

"Sam, you made an angel trap? Nice. But take it down. We need to get this show on the road."

Sam went to the coordinator symbol and, with his thumb, smudged the part of it he'd used chalk to draw. Everything linked to it deactivated. "Good luck, Ezekiel."

"Good luck, Sam." The nod he received was one of respect, and Sam got the feeling he wasn't actually the name being referred to. "It should only be an hour for me, if I am successful."

"For us?" Time moved differently on Earth and in Heaven.

"Five days."

He must only be brushing the edges of Heaven, if the time distortion was still that favourable. Sam had no memories of what was where in modern times, but this meant the weapons were stored in a place where they would be easily accessible. It made sense.

"Five days?" Dean wasn't as relieved. "That long? We're kind of on a schedule here."

"I'll be as fast as I can."

"But don't get caught." Sam clarified. "You're no use to us locked up, Zeke. How's your vessel, by the way? Is he alright?"

"I-" Ezekiel stopped pacing at that. "I don't know. We haven't talked since we fell. Is- Oh. I can't feel him."

"He's dead?"

"That's not possible!" Ezekiel was terrified now, staring at his hands, then at Dean and Bobby. "You'd be blind, if he was dead! But he's… gone… I don't know. I need to leave, before this body burns without him."

"Then go."

"I will."

"And thanks, by the way." Dean offered. "We'd be screwed without you." There was no reply, Ezekiel having vanished halfway through the sentence. "Real grateful. Angels, man."

"What do we do now?"

Dean checked his watch. "I want lunch, I'm  _starving._ "

"I'm not a hotel, boys!" Bobby rolled his eyes. "Head to the shop and get something for yourself. I've already eaten back before you two dropped in without calling ahead."

"I didn't mean lunch. I meant after that. What do we do?"

"Eat. Sleep. We wait, I guess."

  
* * *

They waited.

A day went by, nothing happened, and Bobby kicked them out to find a motel, fed up of the cross between moping and tension his house had become.

They waited, another day went by, and Sam got fed up of the constant headache following him everywhere. If two demons went missing in New Jersey, well, they wouldn't be missed, and Dean slept enough that he had no problems getting away for the five minutes it took. It was just like the old days.

_"You're not addicted."_

"I know." He wasn't. His body was too far from human by now. But in a way, he was - living off the energy like some parasitic beast. The curse of being an angel. Sam tried to ignore the fact that he'd sought this out on his own, with no prompting. He never liked thinking about how far he'd gone in such a short time.

The sun rose on the third day with a bloody sky, and Sam felt the exact moment of 8:03 as a crack of thunder and flash of lightning, though he could tell it was all in his head. One down. Four to go. He let Lucifer investigate and hung back in his soul room, watching in a detached way at the TV screen he'd had form itself on the wall. One of the angels had broken this one, which was a shock to them both as it appeared to be on  _purpose_.

"The Host want to open the Cage?"

"Michael wants his battle. He thinks he was cheated last time."

Last time, when Lucifer had turned Lillith into a demon and destroyed the Temple. Sam could remember it, the same as he could remember all the centuries of time that had followed being stuck in a vast expanse of nothingness, alone. "We'd beat him, wouldn't we?"

"If he was forced not to use Dean, then yes. If not… it would depend on how much he expected our attack."

The cracks had disappeared entirely, and Sam's room was different. The lights were brighter. The carpet extended out into the hallway that led into what he now knew was a never-ending blue sky, the manifestation of Lucifer's soul.

"What if we killed Dean? He couldn't stop us then."

"It would work. Do you want to?"

Sam successfully convinced himself that he hadn't been considering it.

Day four, and Dean tried to drag Sam out on a hunt. A werewolf, judging by the signs, only two hours away. Sam refused point blank.

"People are  _dying_ , Sammy!"

"So? More people will die if we don't get this right. We can't get distracted. Besides, there's a month until the next full moon. We can deal with it then."

Sam didn't see his brother at all for the rest of the day, apart from one time when he and Castiel were talking too far away even for him to hear. When he heard the car roll in over gravel an hour or so before midnight, Dean apologised and said he was right; there was nothing they could do in such a short timespan.

On the fifth day, they dragged everything into a ready position. Apart from the bow, knife, blade and oil, all they needed was a basin and a match to light the stuff. The problem was, it clearly stated at the bottom of the instructions that the forging of this weapon was one of the six hundred and sixty-six seals of the Apocalypse. With only four left, they could hardly spare one.

"We're got our own blade. Can't we use that?" He pulled it from the air just to look at it glisten in the light. Sam already knew why they couldn't, but he wanted to hear a confirmation.

_"An Archangel's sword is to an Seraphim's blade as Death's scythe is to a Reaper's knife. It is a fixed point, tied to us in a way that cannot be broken unless God wills. That's why the sword cannot kill its bearer. If we threw this blade into holy fire, it would not melt. It's stronger than that."_

They were still waiting on the sixth day, and had taken to sitting outside and watching the sky. Sam winced at 11:42 as another seal snapped.

"What is it?"

"Only three left."

Dean never questioned how he knew.

"I called Cas, but he's not answering."

"We're hidden, remember? Seals on our ribcages."

"No, I actually  _called_  him. With a cellphone I gave him yesterday in case of emergencies. He's not picking up."

Sam twisted around so Dean could better see his incredulous look. "You gave an angel a  _cellphone?_ "

"How else are we going to keep in touch?"

"He probably has no clue how to use it. That's why you can't get through to him."

"Yeah, but I showed him how to-"

"He's older than grumpy old people in care homes. Not the recipe for being good at technology. What's going on between you and him, anyway? One second you hate each other and now you're fast friends."

Dean frowned a little. "I don't actually know. He's got this thing about following orders. He still can't refuse a direct one, but he's trying, and he damn well hates people telling him what to do. Kind of like me. What's weirder, is why he doesn't like you. At all. What did you do, bully him into fetching you ice cream?"

Had he? Sam couldn't remember.

 _"You ordered him to take Ezekiel here. He still believes we're Gabriel."_   Now he could remember, and maybe he shouldn't have done it.

"Something like that, probably."

"Where's Zeke got off to?"

"Probably taking ten minutes longer than planned. Just because he's late doesn't mean anything's gone wrong."

"You really believe that?"

"No."

  
* * *

Day seven, and there was a knock on their door. Sam answered - it was 3 a.m., and Dean wouldn't be up for hours.

Anna threw an angel blade at his head.

He teleported to dodge, flickering in behind her and grabbing her arms in a vicelike grip. "What was that for?"

"For being evil." Sam let go and went to pick up the blade that was lying on the floor now, having been thrown carelessly rather than with intent to kill. "Take it. It's yours now."

"This is your sword?"

"No. Mine's right here with me - I am  _not_ giving it up." She tapped her arm. "That one? It's Ezekiel's. Do what you want with it."

"Where is he?"

"Let's just say he's not going to be needing that for a while." Anna folded her arms, and Sam saw that the elbows of the jumper she was wearing had tattered and frayed from overuse. "Anyways, we happened to be doing the same thing, and him accidentally tripping an alarm gave me the window of opportunity to get mine out of there. Thought I owed him a favour, so I'm honouring his last wish."

"He's dead, then."

"Oh, he  _wishes_  he was dead. Hell's torturers have nothing on Heaven's. Word of advice: if he knew anything you might think would be…  _sensitive…_  you should prepare for the worst. They can muck about with time in the dungeon up there, so I give you a day or so earth time before he cracks. Just a thought."

She gave him a  _look_ , then flicked her hand to gesture behind him where Dean had been woken up by the noise. "Hello, Michael's vessel."

"Mar-"

"Anael, if you please. Now, I've played my part in this, so I wash my hands of it all. I'm leaving. Don't look for me - you won't find me, and even if you do I  _will_  kill you for it."

She was gone before either of them could utter another word, and Dean was left to stare dumbfoundedly at the place where she'd been. He turned to Sam. "What in Hell was that? She's an angel now?"

"Apparently. Don't ask me; I have no more idea than you how that happened," Sam lied smoothly, "But it doesn't matter now. We've got everything. Let's do the ritual and shut it all down."


	15. Chapter 15

Still no sign of Castiel - but they didn't need there to be. Sam and Dean were together under the starlight, both with flashlights strapped to their heads, making the final preparations before the greying light of dawn had even begun to show. It was below zero, and frost decorated the dirt around them they'd set up two days ago as a barrier in case the flames got out of hand. Holy fire, from every single lore book they'd consulted, was nasty stuff. It could kill demons, humans, or angels alike.

"Do you want to light it or should I?" Dean asked.

"You do it. You're the one that's going to be using this thing, so maybe it will help if you lead the ritual."

Dean struck a match and threw it at the oil. It was snuffed out by the chilly night air.

"Damn. I swear, we don't even need to lock up Hell. A night like this, it's gotta be frozen over. Give me the lighter; they always work."

Sam passed it to him and he struck it, this time just letting it drop before backing hastily away. The flames roared up like the oil was straight out a car tank, and warm light bathed both their faces.

"Ah, so much better." Dean grinned and closed his eyes, breathing in the warmth. "You could make a fortune selling this thing for fireplaces. There's no smoke."

Dean picked up the Cupid's Bow from the pile of weaponry they'd arranged. This one went in first, then the knife, then the sword. He passed it to Sam, unwilling to go too near the fire.

The prickles of heat on Sam's face were not comfortable, and they itched and burned with a warning to not get any closer. Lucifer stood next to him, staring intently at the flames, letting them reflect in his eyes - Sam's eyes - without blinking once.

"Here we go."

Sam threw the bow in, and the fire flashed a deep, bloody red before fading slowly to its usual orange-blue. Once it had died back down enough for them to see, there was no trace of anything among the flames. Not the bow - not the lighter either.

"It melted the metal…"

"What?"

"Look, the lighter's gone. It melted. Come on, chuck in the knife. Don't be a pussy, Sam."

"You do it, then."

Dean took up the challenge and threw it in like a dart, the fire glowing green this time. Watching closely, they could both see it outline melting - dissolving? Once it too had disappeared, the flames returned to their usual colour.

_"You can feel it pulling at the seal."_

_"Yes, I can."_  Sam could. It was an itch on his face and an itch in the back of his mind, like someone was scratching at a scab he hadn't known he had. "You want to do the last one?."

"Wait a second. I'm calling Cas again." Dean had his phone out, the glare of the screen absorbed by the glare of the fire. He raised it to his ear. "Hello? You there? Cas? Cas, no time to explain, just get down here quick."

It took seven seconds before there were four of them around the fire. Castiel arrived and was struck speechless.

"Quite a sight, right? One more to go. Why weren't you picking up before?"

"I…" Castiel swallowed and broke his gaze. "They ordered me not to talk with you, once Ezekiel had been captured. They didn't want you to know."

"You  _can_  ditch your orders, Cas. We're not going to rat you out. How many times do I have to tell you - it makes no sense being a rebel and then getting terrified over whether or not you followed the actual wording."

"I… I am aware of that, Dean."

"Then go with it."

"That's why I'm here." Castiel stared self-consciously at his feet. "They didn't lift the ban on talking to you. I chose to do so of my own… free will." He said the last two words in a hushed whisper, like he could hardly believe he was doing this.

Dean's face split into a massive grin. "Good on you, Cas."

"Thank you."

"Want to do the last one?" Sam picked up the angel blade and passed it over. "Zeke was your brother after all, and we've each done one. Join the team."

"Team free will." Castiel had a gleam in his eyes, reflected by the fire. He readied the blade. "No more orders."

He threw it in and the flames blazed blue, spitting sparks high into the sky. They all watched with bated breath.

"What do you think it'll look like, Dean?"

"My guess is a gun or a really big sword. Do we just wait for this to die down again?" Dean motioned to where the angel blade was slowly dissolving in the burning oil. "That's an anticlimax if I ever saw one."

They waited.

"It's not dying down."

"Yeah, I know."

They waited some more. A high-pitched whine, reminiscent of an angel's scream, began to ring inside their bones. The flames roared higher.

"Dean, I think it's going to-"

"-Shit."

They turned tail and ran, Castiel flying, Sam thinking he may have flown as well - in the commotion, he didn't remember, and he wasn't sure whether it was him or Lucifer who was in control. These days, it was getting harder and harder to tell.

Behind them there was an explosion, a blue firework that seared the backs of their necks with heat. The whine split the sky, and the shattering in Sam's head told him that one seal was left to his Cage.

He landed face down in the dirt and rolled over, his neck stinging but already healing, and got up as soon as his ears stopped ringing enough for him to balance. Fifty feet away, Dean was doing the same, and just beyond him Castiel was still on the floor. The fire was nothing more than embers now, the blue colour gone, and as Lucifer watched the last spark faded to black and it was only their flashlights that lit the area.

Sam trudged over, and as Dean called out behind him Lucifer turned his head and answered, "Are you coming to get this or not?"

Sam took back control, but only for a second - something had changed, and they no longer had the ability to block the other out. Lucifer could move the body just like he could. He knew it was an effect of the seal. With the last one broken it would be even worse.

"What is it?" Dean was helping Castiel to his feet. The angel's face was shaken, as if he'd never been so close to the breaking of a seal before.

"Come and see." Sam replied. "I'm not really sure if it's some kind of cosmic pun."

Curiosity drew Dean in, and he stared, confused, at the object lying in the charred dirt.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"I think so. Looks like the pen  _is_  mightier than the sword."

It lay there, innocently, a quill with a vivid blue feather that was unstained by the dust or the ash. Dean picked it up, yelped, and dropped it - with a flash it had shifted, too fast for human eyes to follow. Sam watched and saw a biro, a fountain pen, a pencil, chalk, a  _typewriter_ , before coming back to rest on the quill, this time slightly thicker and adorned with Enochian symbols that spelled out the word that would translate to  _Winchester_  - the name for Michael's linage.

"Pick it up again." Lucifer whispered softly.

"No way; you do it."

"I can't." Sam continued. "It wouldn't accept me now." It wouldn't have before - as an angel, he was forbidden to touch. This weapon was humanity's only.

Dean reached out and carefully prodded the quill. It remained inert. He snatched it up and waved the feather in the air to get off some of the dust. "So this is it, then?"

"Yes."

"Hey, you reckon this feather was from an angel wing? Cas! Are angel wings blue?"

Castiel had recovered a little and was stumbling towards them, his stride becoming more confident with every pace. "Our wings are not made of…" He trailed off as he got a good look at the pen. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah, pretty colour. Are we ready with the sealing up Heaven thing? I still need to work out how to call oh so high-and-mighty arch-mosquito down here so we can zap him."

"You know what you must do, Dean." Castiel had tears beginning to form in his eyes, and his body was trembling. "For the safety of everything, even if we must go against whatever is needed of us. I did this; now you have to."

"Don't worry. I'm getting around to it, Cas. So I just point this at whatever I'm commanding, and voila? Far too easy, if you ask me. But I'm not complaining." Dean pointed the quill straight up, aiming for the sky.

"Do it, Dean." Sam urged. "The angels will have felt the seal breaking, and we don't have much time before they figure out who did it."

"I'm on it." He raised the quill, took in a deep breath… then lowered it. "But there's something I have to do first."

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"This."

Dean turned around, eyes boring into Sam's, into Lucifer's, and pointed the pen straight at them. "I don't care which one of them you are of what your name is, but I want you  _out_  of my brother's body and gone for  _good_. That's an  _order_."

Sam barely had time to widen his eyes before his world exploded with pain into black.

  
* * *

He woke up lying on the soft carpet of a room he knew well, jolted into awareness by the touch of a hand against his arm.

"What happened?" He asked as he sat up. The walls of the soul room around him were stained an angry red, but even as he watched the splodges were receding as his defenses knit themselves back together.

His own face looked back at him with concern. "You don't remember? We blacked out, after Dean-"

"Yes, I remember. _K_ _risto_ , we had no idea. We should have checked his mind more often. Can we leave?" He glanced towards the doorway, where the bright red of fresh blood still stained the arch. "That's a no. It should only take a few minutes, though."

"We need to decide what we do when that happens. He still has the weapon, and he could use it again at any time."

"Good point. What I don't understand, though, is why it worked on  _me_  as well as you." He inspected his hands to check for residual damage. "Because I'm not an angel. I'm Sam; that means I'm human." A sudden, terrifying thought struck him. "Am I?"

"No, you're not."

"Not human?"

"Not Sam."

"No." His stomach, if he had a stomach in this place, was twisting and sinking in his gut. "That's not possible. I remember-" But it was. They both remembered Sam's memories, like they both remembered Lucifer's. There was no way to use that to tell them apart. And with them both losing consciousness it was impossible to know by any other way. "You can't be sure I'm not."

"I woke up first. That means I'm less angel than you are."

"Or it means that I was controlling the body when we got hit."

"Or that," His other self agreed. "Truth it, I'm not sure there's any way to tell. But I  _want_  to be Sam."

"We're both Sam."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He agreed. "I want to be Sam too. He's better than either of us. Purer."

"I'll toss you for it?" Other him offered. He shook his head.

"No point, in here. It would turn into a battle of wills which would-"

"-End in a tie because we're the same person. The coin would stand on its end. We'll do it once we're allowed out of here."

They both fell silent, watching the doorway mend itself. Sam - because no matter which one he was, he could still refer to himself that way, and Samael was technically his name - traced the Enochian for  _Morning_  on the floor. Lucifer's name, given to him after the banishment when his old one had been stripped from him. There was no point using it any more, of forcing whichever one of them lost to bear that indignity.

"I think we can get through. Should you or should I?"

Sam stood up. "I'll do it. I call tails."

"Heads, then. Good luck, Sam."

"You too."

  
* * *

Sam woke up in the middle of a charred crater, the dirt around him still warm from the after-effect of the fire. He searched in his pocket and pulled out the quarter he knew would be there, using an updraft of Grace to send it spinning high into the sky. He had time to get up before it hit the earth in front of him, proudly proclaiming its result for all the world to see.

_"Well guessed."_

He sent affection and condolence along the link, before realizing what he should have noticed about two seconds after waking up. "Where are Dean and Castiel? They should still be here; it's only been ten minutes."

_"Heaven hasn't been closed. It's possible that-"_

"-The angels came for them. _K_ _risto_ , we never get the easy ones, do we?" Without bothering to walk, Sam flew to the entrance to Singer Salvage Yard and tried the lock. It swung open, and he noticed from the other side that someone had picked it from the tiny gouge marks in the wood. Either Dean or, most likely, something more sinister - sulfur residue was trapped in the cracks. "Demons. Bobby!"

"I'm right  _here_ , ya idjit." hissed a voice from the darkness. "You don't think I missed the explosion in my back yard? You boys are in so much trouble when I work out what the Hell is going on. Where's Dean?"

"I was hoping you would know."

"Well, I know about as much as a pheasant on shooting day. Care to enlighten an old man?"

_"Sam, every second we spend here is time we need for-"_

"I know. Listen, Bobby, there are some things I didn't tell you. And you're going to be angry when you find them out, which  _isn't_ going to be now. I can't have you compromised, not with so much at stake. What I need you to do is get to your panic room, open it up, power up all the seals I drew, and hide there. Indefinitely. Don't come out unless I say so or you're literally dying because of lack of water or something."

Bobby shook his head. "I'm not-"

"No ifs. No buts. Go and hide, or you'll end up captured and used as a hostage against us."

"I can't power up the seals. I'm not a  _witch_ , Sam, or a-"

"You know what? Here you go." Sam let Grace flash behind his eyes in a wave he exuded outwards and downwards, targeting it to the hollow cavern he could sense below the floor. He felt the symbols ping in response as they began to work. Bobby took three steps back and hefted the shotgun he was carrying.

"You explain what you just did right  _now_  or I pump you full of iron, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for this." He saw the finger press the trigger and flew off before the bullets were even out of the chamber.

_"Can you locate Dean or Castiel?"_

_"It appears both our brothers elude us. We'll have to search manually."_

Sam landed, on top of a roof, ice making the floor treacherous but nowhere near enough to bother him. The lights of Sioux Falls stretched away into the frozen night, and above them, a starry sky masked the entrance to the lower echelons of Heaven. They could be anywhere.

  
* * *

_Fifteen minutes before…_

***

Sam's eyes barely had time to widen before his body jerked as if hit by an invisible wall, and he crumpled bonelessly to the floor. The shock of joy, of rightness, that had shot through Dean faded to leave him breathing hard and grinning. This was his  _destiny_ , what he'd been born for. To lead. To command the angels. To never be outshone again by the annoying little brother that needed to learn his  _place_  in the-

He dropped the pen as if he'd been burned. Those sensations weren't his. And he was standing over what could easily be his brother's corpse, Castiel having dropped to one knee, and-

"What the Hell?" It pretty accurately summed up what Dean was feeling right now. "Sam." His voice cracked halfway through the name, as he dropped to a sitting position and checked for a pulse. It was there, fluttering, a little fast and a little weak but steady and regular. "You said it wouldn't harm him, Cas."

"It shouldn't have. It should only work on an angel. I'm not sure why-" Castiel wisely cut off at the look on Dean's face. "Would you rather we let things go on as they were?"

"No. God, no." He couldn't keep it together. His words were coming out among sobs. He'd never let anyone see him like this, not Sam, not Bobby, not anyone, but Cas was different, not human and all the social structures that came with it and damn it, his manliness wouldn't take too hard a beating if his guardian angel saw Dean Winchester cry like a baby. "Y-you were right. All of it. I didn't believe it - couldn't have, but he  _pretended_ so well that-"

"Gabriel was always known as a trickster." Castiel said sadly. "It was one of the few things you could be sure of about him, back when he lived among us."

"How  _long_ , Cas?"

"I don't know how long, exactly. All I know is that Gabriel revealed himself to me when Sam summoned me by breaking his ribs. I would say it's been from the beginning."

"Never trust a goddamn angel. I should've known." Dean wiped the tears from his eyes - crying session over, thank you very much. "Not you, Cas. I don't know why, but you're different."

"Thank you."

"When is he going to wake up?"

"I don't know. He could wake up now, or not at all. It depends if he struggled, or if he was suppressed. If it helps, one of the other things we could be sure of was that Gabriel treated his vessels extremely well, though it may have changed in two thousand years. And Sam has a very powerful bloodline."

Dean let his hand rest on top of Sam's wrist, feeling the steady pulse of his heart. "Sam did this for me, you know. I should have known one angel couldn't have dragged me out of Hell, not without some extra kick behind it. I owe him my  _soul_."

"Don't waste his sacrifice. We must use the time we have to strike now." Castiel stared up at the stars, still on one knee. "The angels have no idea of the power you command. Find the connection with Michael, and take control."

"I'm not your leader. Find someone else to do it; I'm talking care of Sam." Dean stood up.

"It has to be you, Dean." Castiel's eyes bored into his soul. "I can see the truth written into every line of your face. You are my commander now. I will follow you to my death, but you have to fight the battles ahead."

"Cas, I'm not sure how much you got of the 'free will' thing, because-"

"I will follow you to my death  _of my own free will_ , Dean. Don't think I haven't considered this. You're our only hope for a better world. You have to lead. Please."

Dean reached down, grasped the quill by its feather, and let the surge of sudden power thrum through his veins. "No." He held it out. "Take it. Keep it for later. We've got time; a few days, maybe more. That's enough to get Sam to a guy I know. He specializes in helping with these sorts of things, so he'll know what to do. Once Sam's safely there and getting care, then we do this."

"I can't let you delay like that. You're endangering the entire world."

"Yes you  _can_. I'm your commander now, Cas, or did you forget what you just said? You follow me; that means you do what I say. Or do I have to use this thing on you?"

"…No."

"Good." Dean tried for a smile, but gave up and let it slide off his tired face. "Take the pen. Go on, take it." He thrust it out at Castiel, who was cringing away from it in slight terror.

"I-I can't. It's not meant for angels; it would kill me."

"Not if I say it won't. You're just guarding it. You're a guardian angel, after all. That's what you do. Keep it safe, I'll call you when I'm done, and we can go save the world from the apocalypse. Cas, trust me. Take it."

Castiel closed his eyes and blindly reached out, palm face up. Dean placed the quill in his hand and felt the angel jump at the first brush of feather on skin. "See? It doesn't hurt you."

"I will guard it with my life." Castiel said solemnly.

"I should hope so. Only, don't actually die because then I'd never get it back. Now get back to the rest of the angels and act normal. Keep the cellphone on just like I showed you. We can do this."

"Thank you, Dean."

Before he could ask what for, the angel he was talking to was no longer there.

  
* * *

Dean brushed Sam's hair out of his eyes. Apart from basic life functions, there was no sign of him regaining consciousness. It was like whatever made him Sam, his mind or soul or whatever - was squirrelled away on a different plane of reality.

Pierre would help. He'd helped them before. The darkness that came just before morning was beginning to show in the sky, but if he drove fast he'd be across the state line by nine and at his place by lunchtime. From there it was-

Dean went completely still for one second. Two. Then he whipped his head around.

"Show yourself!" He yelled into the night, reaching up with one hand to click on the headlamp.

It illuminated a figure, a woman, with black hair and a grin and the light whiff of sulfur carried on the four a.m. breeze. "So what do we have here, then? Poor Sammy. He doesn't look so well."

"Ruby, if you don't get out of here this instant I swear I will knife you in the gut, twist it until you wail and beg for death," Dean considered, "And then gouge out your eyes for good measure. Then I'll stab you in the heart and watch you finally die. I will love every second of it."

"Ooh? I don't remember doing anything to deserve such  _anger_." Ruby rolled her eyes. "But the point's moot. Because I've got the knife, not you." She spun it in her hand for good measure.

"Where did you get that?"

"Where do you  _think_  I got it? God, you humans can be so stupid sometimes. Makes me wonder how I ever stomached being one of you."

"What do you want?" Grudging helper or enemy, it didn't matter either way because he hadn't brought weapons - but if Dean could just get to the cellphone…

"I'd think it would be obvious. I want Sam. Only one seal to go, so he's coming to rehab camp with me. Only, he seems to be in a rather deep sleep right now. How did you manage that? Never mind, there are ways of waking people up, and I'm sure Dad wouldn't mind if his meatsuit was a little more docile than expected."

"You're not having him." Half of that had gone over Dean's head, but he got the message - Ruby wanted his brother, and Ruby was not getting what she wanted.

"You could come instead. I mean, it says a Winchester must break both the first and last seals, but it never specifies which one - we kind of  _assumed_  Sam would be the best choice, since that positions things perfectly, but if you're offering yourself willingly…"

"You wouldn't harm him?"

"We wouldn't touch him, not until the seal broke."

"And then?"

"He'd be taken care of." Ruby smiled. " _Very_  well."

"Done."

"What, no negotiations? Nothing? Fine then. Your loss - but you need to hand over your phone. No summoning help, thanks."

Dean dug around in his pocket and pulled it out, letting it rest in the palm of his hand. "Then I get a weapon. Of my choice, from the car. Just so I can be sure you're not double-crossing me."

"We're demons, you know. Not politicians. We actually  _stick_  to our promises."

"No you don't."

"No we don't," Ruby agreed, and snatched up the phone. "So you can have your weapon. I'd say it's a fair trade. We're going to make you kill something anyway, so best do it with the powerful stuff." She took step back, then two, then three, receding into the darkness. "Come on, we don't have all night. Dawn comes and the featherheads will be all over this place."

"I'm not leaving Sam."

"Yes you are. You've got my word - no demon will harm or ever again touch Sam Winchester. Now the quicker this gets done, the quicker you can get him out of the cold and do whatever it is you need to do to wake him up. He can't die of hypothermia. It's encoded into his biology - cold doesn't harm him. He'll be fine."

"I want the Colt."

"You still have bullets for that thing? I swear you'd used them by now. Sure, get over there and take your gun. Go on, the sky's getting lighter, and you don't want angels finding this as much as I don't."

  
* * *

"The Colt's gone."

_"But not the knife."_

"No, and that means either he was waiting for me and left it or-"

_"He wasn't facing a demon. Just an unknown."_

Sam rummaged through the other storage crates in the boot of the Impala. "Nothing else is out of place. Just the gun. Do we need the knife? He knows about us already."

_"I say we take it just in case."_

Once it was securely fastened to Sam's side, they jumped again, the world spiralling away below them as they landed high in the sky and immediately began to fall.

Nothing. No sign of Dean. He hadn't taken the car, meaning he hadn't left a trail, and the seals they'd written on his bones were doing their job too well.

They hit the ground without a scratch on them and took off running through the lamplit streets. It was a ridiculous last hope, but one Sam was willing to entertain.

_"I'd missed this."_

"Me too."

They didn't slow down, didn't get out of breath. The sun would be rising soon, and in the sky the Morning Star twinkled as if to egg them on.

  
* * *

Dean fiddled with the safety. On, off, on, off. He shouldn't; he remembered endless training sessions and warnings from Dad that you should never  _ever_  mess about with a loaded gun, but that was the last thing on his mind.

Ruby had led him to a chapel, proudly proclaiming St. Mary's on the side, and had barely flinched at the cross on the wall above the door. "Everything is prepped. Just do what I say and there'll be no need to use that thing."

"Don't patronize me and you won't get shot, Ruby. What's that on the altar?" They hadn't turned on the lights, but the flashlight beam shone through dust motes to illuminate a pile of rags.

"Baby. Three days old. Stole it from the hospital yesterday; it's a staple for the ritual. Technically, any virgin will do but these days you can never be sure if they're telling the  _truth_. Too much paedophilia around, and sleeping around, but nobody is touching a newborn like that."

She walked forward and scooped it into her arms, cooing softly. Dean watched and felt like he was going to be sick.

"Hush, little baby. Always had a thing for children. Everyone thinks they're innocent, but there's corruption running right through their hearts. Greed, envy, laziness. In some people, it never gets taught out of them. Ssh, don't cry. It'll all be over soon."

"I'm not doing it."

"See? That's what I'm on about." Ruby set the baby down and stretched out against the altar. "This ridiculous belief in the innocence of a child. It's not-"

The rest of her words were lost in the crack of a gunshot and a gurgle as a bullet pierced her ribcage, into her heart. Dean lowered the Colt and gritted his teeth, watching carefully as Ruby slumped down and blood began to trickle into a pool on the floor.

It was over.

She'd let down her guard.

Back to Sam.

There was a flash of lightning and a boom of thunder outside, which made no sense since the night was cloudless. The door slammed open as if hit by an irresistible force, and in rushed-

"Dean, what have you done?" Sam's eyes were wide as he took in the scene.

"You're awake. You woke up." A knot of tension dissolved and the world became that much brighter.

"Of  _course_  I- Dean, I came as soon as I felt it. The last seal's gone. I didn't break it, so you must have…"

"I killed Ruby."

"That's not Ruby. Same meatsuit, different demon. Did she ever show you her eyes? _K_ _risto_ , this is all wrong!"

"Sam, you have to calm down, okay? Tell me how much you remember of the last few months. But it's over. You're free."

Sam was staring in horror down at the floor beneath Ruby's body. Dean looked, and saw that the blood was… Behaving oddly. It was trickling out in a stream as if down a hill, but the floor was to the best of his knowledge completely level.

"I'm free. And that's the  _problem_ , don't you see? I'm free, but we just broke my Cage, and it's empty. They're going to know!"

"Who, Sammy?"

"The angels! Everyone! My brother!" The blood was forming a spiral on the floor.

"Sam…" Dean shone the flashlight straight in his face, but he wasn't blinking or shielding his eyes. And the pattern of shadows it made on the wall… "Look behind you."

Sam looked, and Dean could tell the exact moment when he flinched as he realized the presence of shadows of things that weren't there. Fluttering, warping, twisting… Almost like the shadows of feathers.

"You didn't leave. I told you to leave and you didn't."

"No, I didn't. I never listened to orders. But Dean, this isn't the time to worry about that - Sam's fine, I swear. Right now, my Cage is opening, you're about to get captured and tortured and then three billion people are going to die in the showdown." Sam ran forward, towards the light that had begun to rise up from the bloody spiral.

"You're not Gabriel. Gabriel doesn't have a cage."

"Who told you I was - Castiel, wasn't it. He was wrong. I'm not Gabriel."

"Then who are you? Answer me!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't want it to happen like this, but there's no point keeping secrets any more." Sam disappeared, teleporting to right in front of Dean, his hand outstretched in a handshake gesture. Dean took it. "Samael, the Morning Star, at your service, brother. But you may know me better as Lucifer."

Then everything exploded into light around them, the angel's grip became a vice Dean couldn't escape, and with a horrible dizzying tug he was pulled out of this reality.

  
* * *

Dean staggered back, away from Sam. "You-"

"There's no time!" Sam cut him off. "They're tracking us. We have to jump again before they find our location."

He didn't wait, instead grabbing Dean's shoulder and stepping through reality to another place on Earth - he didn't even care where it was. It was pitiful to think how he'd once been so disorientated by this, but it seemed like Dean was experiencing similar nausea.

"Get away from me!" Dean wrenched his arm and Sam let it go. He felt the lights in the back of his mind, scanning and searching for them. With the entirety of the Host on the lookout, it wouldn't take long.

"I can explain."

"No you  _can't_. Give my brother back!"

"I am your brother."

"No. Sam, if you can hear me I swear I'm going to get you out of there, okay?"

"Dean, you're not talking to anyone. I'm Sam. It's me." A shudder of energy - they'd found their location. How were the angels doing it? That was too fast for sheer luck. "Grab my arm, we're leaving again."

Dean spun around and tried to run. Sam teleported to just in front of him and let them collide, using the contact to whisk them both away as a flare of light erupted where they had been barely a second before. That had been too close for comfort.

"For Dad's sake, Dean, stop struggling; you're only making this harder!" Dean only glared back. "How are they doing it? How are they finding us?"

"You're not my brother."

" _Fine._  I'm not your brother, whatever you say. It doesn't matter to me at the moment. What  _does_  matter is making sure they can't - shit."

Another jump, this one landing somewhere vaguely in the South Pole area and ending up with Dean in a snowdrift, Sam using his wings to stay on top of it. "Sorry, wrong climate. Hang on-"

Now some tropical island, the first one he found, no idea of the name but somewhere in the Pacific.

"It's not me; it can't be me. I've been in places I shouldn't have loads of times; if they had a way of tracking me they'd have noticed ages ago, which means - do you have any kind of tracking device on you? Phone? GPS?"

"Please give him back.  _Please_."

"That's a no. But if it's not them, it must be you. Oh. Of course!"

Sam picked them up and skipped across space again, this time scrutinising the edges of Dean's soul for the slightest hint of - yes, there it was.

"I have the most  _annoying_  big brothers, you know that? Michael's using his connection with you to direct his forces where to find us. As long as we're together I won't be safe."

"Then  _leave._ "

"I was getting to that." Another jump, and they ended up in the middle of a desert with sand up to both their ankles. The constant repositioning of reality was beginning to take its toll on Dean. "Look, I'm going to have to drop you. I can do it at Bobby's, and I'll be in and out in a flash. Go to the panic room, power up  _all_  the angel sigils, and  _stay there_. Don't leave, not if Michael himself comes knocking on your door. The instant he finds you, he'll torture you into saying yes and I don't care if you held out thirty years before, this is different."

"Like you did to Sam? You  _tortured_  him?"

" _Kristo!_ " Sam swore, as he was forced to jump again by a hand almost catching them in the burst of light that had suddenly appeared. It wasn't random angels hitting the mark, this was a dedicated pursuer. Receiving information, then jumping after him. Very bad. "I can still stop this. But if you give in to my brother, then the game is up and half of Earth dies in the fallout. Do you understand, Dean?"

"What are you-"

" _I need more time!"_

Bobby's. Singer Salvage yard. Sam dragged Dean along and all but threw him there, then turned to face his pursuer. He smirked.

"See how you like this, Zachariah."

Then he dodged sideways, slipping out of the present into the time stream itself, aiming for the past.

  
* * *

He was  _still_  being followed.

Even with his own Grace being ripped away from his skin by the rushing flow as he struggled upstream, Zachariah was still in pursuit. For a normal angel, it was an almost impossible feat. But Zachariah was high ranking, used to wielding power, and he had access to as much energy as he needed to bring Sam in. It wasn't too surprising.

It wasn't like swimming, not at all. It was more like trying to fly through an avalanche, going against time itself. Sam knew he couldn't keep it up much longer, but he just had to get far enough that he could hide.

One year back… Two. Three. Four?

He stopped, treading air with his wings, and eyed the streak of flickering light making its way towards him. Neither of them could access any power but their own in here, and so both were failing. They would need to exit soon, and from then it would be first one recovered was winner by default.

Exits from the stream took nearly as much power as entrances, so he started to create one and watched the spiderweb cracks of light take shape. Zachariah flew closer - ten seconds until he was here, though time made no sense in this world.

When he did… Sam dodged again. He struggled backwards one last stroke and let the other angel crash through the portal he'd created, dissolving it so it wouldn't be possible to immediately return. And then, with the last of his strength, he made another exit and launched himself through.

A few days earlier.

He hoped it would be enough.

  
* * *

Sam hit the floor and had a blade pressed to his throat before he could even gasp for air. This was it, he'd miscalculated - gone in the wrong direction, maybe, giving his pursuer enough recovery time to track down his landing site.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

Never had he been so glad to hear a woman's voice. Sam cracked open his eyes; yes, that familiar ginger.

"Because it wouldn't work. Already got stabbed with one of those. Angel blades don't kill me."

Anael frowned down at her shortsword. "It might. You're pretty weak. I should try."

"Ah, but if it did work then you'd have Michael hunting you down for denying him his big apocalypse fight. Why are you here, by the way?"

"Safest place to hide. The truce with demonkind is still in effect here, so fewer of our brothers walk the earth. And I wanted out."

"Like me."

"Oh, no, Lucifer - I am  _nothing_  like you. You're a spineless cowardly wretch I wish I had the weapons to dispose of."

Sam hauled himself into a sitting position. "It's Sam, by the way. Not Lucifer."

"Samael, Lucifer - I don't care how you refer to yourself but Dad stripped your name from you for a good reason." Anael let her blade dissolve back into the air and stood up from her crouch. "I'm not taking sides in this war. You're both my enemies."

"Well, at least I'm the enemy of your enemy."

"True, but that's not relevant. You know, I'd promise to help you if you promised that after you'd disposed of Michael you'd jump in the Cage again and have this all be over, but I somehow don't see that happening."

"No."

"There were strange weather patterns around this town. That's how I knew you would be here. There are other ones around Mississippi. From what I guess, whoever is after you will arrive at about noon, tomorrow." Anael closed her eyes, and an orb of light coalesced into her hand. "That's everything I can spare. Give them Hell for me, Lucifer."

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because even though you're evil as they come, you're trying to save humanity. And I think… I think that's what Dad wants us to do. I think this is a test. And I think you're the only one who passed it, even if it was for the wrong reasons. Don't  _ever_  track me down again."

Sam let her leave, feeling her Grace infuse new life into him, restoring function to what passed as his human body.

"…Hello?"

He couldn't think of a time, notwithstanding that first one when he'd barely been aware that something was sharing his body, that Lucifer hadn't immediately answered when his name had been called. "Where are you? Is something wrong?"

Come to think of it, they hadn't spoken at all since before the Cage had been opened. Sam had been in control the whole time, going only on instinct of what to do. Or had he?

"Samael?"

The name was far too familiar to his ears. It wasn't Lucifer's name. Lucifer wasn't even a name. "This isn't funny. Stop it."

Was it  _his_  name? Was he Lucifer? They hadn't ever worked that one out for sure. Not that it mattered, since they both possessed the same set of memories. Memories that reminded Sam, right now, of what was supposed to happen.

Sam was supposed to be absorbed, to cease to exist as their minds merged. A soul had no use for two parts that were identical in every way. But it seemed like Sam himself had been the victorious one, coming out on top against all the odds.

…But that wasn't true. Whoever the being that was him was, he was far more than Sam Winchester. That name - that alias - would mean little to him in a thousand years' time, and almost nothing in a million. And whoever Sam was, he had a job to do.

There would be time for self reflection later. There would be an infinity of time.

  
* * *

Dean ran at full pelt down the corridor, the figure behind him in hot pursuit, somehow keeping up with the limping gait of a zombie. Demons would tear their meatsuits' bodies into bloodbags just to get that extra speed.

He needed to get back to the storage warehouse. There should be a devil's trap on the floor by now; a mystical symbol that contained them and drained all their power. If only he could keep up the sprint long enough without burning out and the demon's inhuman stamina giving her - him? he hadn't gotten a good enough glimpse - the edge.

He should never have agreed to be the bait in this thing.

A scream behind him. A screech like nails down a blackboard, and a flash of heat across the back of his neck as well as a flicker of light imprinting the corridor ahead onto his retinas.

It was when the whiff of burning ozone hit his nostrils that made Dean give in to his curiosity and spare a glance behind him. Nobody was there.

He slowed to a halt and began to retrace his steps, on full alert mode in case it jumped out from the shadows, but once he saw the corpse lying spread-eagled on the ground he gave up being subtle. It was staring blankly up at the ceiling, or would be, if it had-

"Holy shit."

It had been a her, Dean could see that now. His first impression had been correct. The ozone, like a tire fire, clogged his nostrils. Her clothes looked like they had barely survived a lightning strike, her face was covered in a spiderweb pattern of alternating second and third degree burns, and her eyes had been…

 _Her eyes were melted out of their sockets._  Blood was pooling where tears should have.

Dean felt his stomach lurch and fought down the urge to throw up. He'd never seen something like this, not ever. Demons were supposed to be invincible. But this one had been disposed of with ease… And from the looks of it, with  _satisfaction_.

He had to get back to the warehouse. Dad would know what to do.

  
* * *

Dean stumbled back into the warehouse, spots still shining behind his eyes - that flash of light had been brighter than he had thought at first. It had to have been, to burn someone's eyes out like that.

There was a Devil's trap drawn on the groundsheet laid out over the floor, on which kneeled what could only be a demon glaring spitefully up at Dad. John Winchester stood over it with holy water held threateningly and salt in his other hand.

"Why are you here?"

"Why should I tell  _you_?" The demon, wearing a male body, grinned. "You can't do anything to me."

With a swift movement John stepped inside of the trap and kicked it in the head, jerking its neck around with the snap of a bone and throwing it into an invisible wall where it slid down the barrier of the trap. But he wasn't fast enough at getting out; the demon launched itself at his leg and clamped on in a bite, only releasing when John poured holy water right down its face.

It smiled again, teeth stained red, and spat out a mouthful of blood. "So incompetent. Puny little human hunter. You have nothing on what'll be in store if I squeak here, so you get nothing. Hurry up and send me back already; I'm getting bored." It slumped over and closed its eyes, looking for all the world like it was sleeping peacefully if it weren't for the matted blood soaking into its hair.

"Dad!"

John spun around to see his son, staring at him, standing on the other devil's trap laid out in front of the door and with no company.

"What happened to the other one, Dean? You let it get away?"

"No, there was-"

"Do you have any idea how many people might die if that thing got loose in the town?"

Dean flinched. "I-it wasn't like that! There's something else out there, Dad!"

Unnoticed by either of them, the demon flicked open one eye, then slowly - ever so slowly - drew itself back to a sitting position so it could hear more.

"What do you mean, something else?"

"I don't know, it - I think it killed the demon. It died."

"That's not possible, Dean. Demons don't die."

"Well this one did, okay? There was this huge flash of light and a burning, then it was a corpse. I didn't hear an exorcism."

"What did it look like?" They both whipped their heads around at the sound of the other demon's voice. He was staring intently at them; at Dean. "The body. What did its  _face_  look like?"

How did it know?

"Its eyes were melted out of its sockets."

"No…" He scrambled into the centre of the trap, glancing around fearfully. "No, no, no… We had a  _truce_ , you  _fikita plumokapoj! Kristo!"_

"If you told us what it was, we might send you back early." Dean remarked casually. "So you're not in any danger, that's all. Right?" He looked to John for confirmation, who nodded briefly, once.

The demon laughed, dragging air in and out in a wheeze. "Oh, I'd like nothing more than to spill every secret they have, but one: I can't, my voice goes if I try, and two: telling either of  _you_  about  _them_  is far enough above my station that I might as well kill myself now to spare myself a lifetime of agony. Assuming I don't die in the next hour."

"-Which you probably will." Sam said from the corner of the warehouse.

  
* * *

Dean spun around. "Sam?!" he gasped, not comprehending.

"Dean." Sam nodded. "John." another nod. The personality was all wrong - this wasn't the rebellious nerd kicking back at the world like Sam had been six months ago. Too mature, too calm, too collected.

"Dean, don't approach it. It's not Sam." Dad had come to the same conclusion. It - whatever it was, shifter,  _demon possessing his brother_  - smiled.

"Very quick. Don't worry, Sam Winchester is safe. He's in his bed at Stanford University; I checked. He has no knowledge of this, and he won't for quite a few years." Not-Sam disappeared and flickered back into sight within the Devil's Trap, startling the demon whose eyes were wide and black with fear.

"You're-"

"Yes. I am. I'd appreciate it if you kept that quiet."

"I will."

"Good. Now, you two: why are you here?" It directed this question right at Dad. "Don't answer that. You were hunting demons, and these two were feeding off residual energy. The question is, why  _here_? There are a million creatures you could be hunting and yet you pick the one that means our paths cross."

Dad would know what to do. Dean risked a side glance at him, taking his eyes off the creature that could move faster than a heartbeat. But Dad seemed paralysed at the sight of Sam's body, unsure of how to proceed.

Dean turned back and pointed at the demon still slumped at Not-Sam's feet. "You know him?"

"He knows me."

"You're a demon, then."

"Of course not." To demonstrate its case, it held up both its hands to show it wasn't a threat - and walked right across the line of the Devil's Trap.

"What  _are_  you?" Shifter seemed like the only possibility but if they could teleport like it had done, Dean would be dead a million times over from hunting the things.

"There are greater things out there than demons, Dean. Evil is not the only force on the Earth. Which reminds me:" Ignoring Dean again, Not-Sam crouched down next to the demon inside the trap. "I can't have any word of this escaping. It would destroy a lot of very sensitive plans if management knew I was up and about."

The demon nodded. "I understand. Do you want me to-"

"Yes, that would be ideal." Not-Sam reached out a hand, and the demon took it.

Light flared up around them, and one of them screamed - Dean guessed it was the demon, but he couldn't be sure, and for a terrifying moment he thought he recognised Sam's agonised yell in there. When it got dim enough to see again, Not-Sam was standing over a corpse on the floor. With burned-out eye sockets.

"That was  _you_." Dean gasped.

"Yes. Now I'd suggest you both leave. Things here are about to get very messy, and I'd prefer it if I didn't have to mop your brain fluid off the floor." It said all this as if it was joking, but there was something deadly serious in its eye that made a shiver crawl down Dean's spine.

"Dean, go get in the car and stay there." Dad said, the first thing he'd said since the thing had appeared. Dean shook his head.

"I'm not leav-"

"Go back to the car, Dean! That's an order." He barked, with the tone of voice that specified  _no_  argument.

So Dean went, leaving Dad to face off against the twisted mirror of his brother, running all the way there but refusing to clamber in. He opened the boot instead, scanning the rows of weapons for anything that could be of use. Salt, holy water? This thing  _killed_ demons; it wasn't one. Iron? Possibly, but-

_"-he won't remember me-"_

He stopped, staring at the weapon in his hand. One of their iron knives, but what was he doing holding it? Dean looked around. The place was vaguely familiar - there was an old abandoned warehouse up ahead, the place where Dad said a couple of demons were hiding and stirring up trouble. Where was he? Dean remembered riding shotgun as they approached this place, then getting out, then… standing here, holding a knife that would probably make a demon scream, if the stories about iron were true. he wasn't sure; it was his first demon hunt.

Which means Dad had left him behind.

  
* * *

"You're leaving yourself alone with me. Why?" Sam asked, his curiosity shining through in his voice. "I'm pretty sure you've worked out by now that I could kill you in a heartbeat."

John glared back defiantly, grip tightening on the gun in his hand. "Dean will spread the message. If I'm killed here, other hunters will come to find you."

"No, they won't." Sam glanced briefly towards the doorway Dean had left through and sent a concentrated burst of thought his way. "In fact, he won't remember me. Now, John Winchester, what is it you want?"

"You can kill demons."

"Yes, I can." Sam frowned as he saw where this was going.

"I need you to teach me how. How do they die? How do you kill them?"

"Sorry, it's not something I can teach."

"Then I need you to kill one for me. Just one."

He pretended to consider the request. "My services aren't for hire. Plus, doing that would disrupt even  _more_  very sensitive plans, so…"

"I'll give you my soul for it."

"What?" Sam couldn't believe he'd heard that right.

"I'll make a deal with you: you kill one demon of my choosing, and you get my soul for the rest of eternity." John repeated.

Sam folded his arms and shook his head firmly. "I'm not a crossroads demon, John. I have no use for your soul anywhere but where it currently is. So run along back to Dean and get away from this place - there are forces here you don't understand, and not all of them are as friendly as me."

"No. You  _will_ -" John stopped short as a ripple of  _something_  passed through the air, and the floor underneath them shivered. Thirty feet away, the air began to glow.

"And now we're too late. You should have left."

"What is that?"

"The energy the demons were feeding off. It's collecting into a singularity… letting something through."

With a bright flash and a crack like a gunshot, a figure appeared and staggered into a crouch. As the smell of burning ozone spread through the room, it stood up and faced them both.

Sam advanced towards it, calling his sword to his hand with a burst of Grace and twisting it into a defensive position to guard his body. "Zachariah. How  _kind_  of you to finally join me. Tell me; is there any reason at all that I shouldn't stab this blade through your heart?"

Zachariah, unfazed, brushed the dust and charred ash off from his somehow still immaculate suit. "What is he doing here?" He pointed behind Sam, probably at John, who was still standing in the same spot.

"Either it's part of Dad's plan or Metatron has a sense of humor." Sam gave a languid shrug. "I don't care."

"Dean's already been captured. Michael has him; he won't last."

"Like I said, I don't care. I-" Sam spun around. "John? Was there something you wanted to say?"

John, who had been opening his mouth to ask something, closed it again. Then opened it. "Dean?" It came out halfway between a statement and a question.

"Yes, Dean. You should leave. In fact,  _go_." With a burst of power Sam sent him spiralling away. He'd land somewhere outside, not far, but probably at an odd enough angle for bruises or possibly a broken bone. "Can't have him messing up the timeline."

Zachariah laughed. "You haven't changed at all, have you, Lucifer? Two thousand years and you still treat them like scum to wash off the sole of your foot. What would poor little Sam have to say about that? That is, if he's still alive in there."

"He'd say you're a hypocrite. Dad's orders were to love the humans and yet  _all_  the angels hate them, resent them… I was just the only one who  _did_  something about it. The rest of you were too spineless to even think about disobeying."

"Delusional as always."

"I know you're stalling." Sam could sense the energy beginning to coalesce again, this time gathering at a point right in the corner of the warehouse. "Did you think I believed you alone were the source of all this energy? Ripples like this don't happen unless an archangel travels in time. Raphael is stronger than you. You're weak; he's used to the time stream. So you're the advance guard."

The energy began to manifest again as light, drawing closer in on itself and becoming brighter.

"You will be judged before the wrath of your brothers, Lucifer."

Sam smirked. "Not today."

He flickered, landing just in front of the doorway as it opened and light rushed through, then darting inside before anything could stop him. Once through, it was no effort at all to let himself be washed away, downstream, heading back to face the present.

  
* * *

High noon. Stull Cemetary. It was all over the radio, a chorus of angels singing it in eighteen-part harmony across all corners of the earth. Singing for him - they knew he was here, but they didn't know where he was, and so the message was broadcast everywhere to ensure he would hear it.

Sam sat in a cafe, drinking black coffee and watching the sun set over Paris.

_"If you're there, or you're listening, please answer me."_

The coffee did nothing to him any more, but something in his taste buds seemed to recognise it was meant to wake him up. Certainly he felt much better than three hours ago when he'd stumbled out of the time stream and fallen into the Seine. His clothes were still slightly damp; Sam couldn't be bothered to dry them.

_"Come on. I can't do this without you."_

He hadn't realised before how ridiculously dependent he'd grown on the being he was sharing his body with. It wasn't even the extra strength and power that came from being possessed. After all, he still had that. It wasn't the vast knowledge of so much mostly irrelevant information, revealing secrets probably no other human knew and would have made Sam the happiest man in the world back during his Stanford days. After all, he still had them too.

_"I don't want to fight them. They're our brothers. Why do I have to do this? It was supposed to be you. It's not fair."_

He thought that maybe it was the ability to run away when things got out of hand, to let an angel take over the situation so he didn't have to deal with it. But that made Sam feel like a coward, so he tried to think of another reason.

He settled on the fact that, before, he'd had someone to talk to no matter what he wanted to say. Now, when he was in need of a listener, he didn't have one.  _That_  only made him painfully aware of how he'd treated Lucifer, back when he was just a voice in his head or a blank in his memories. He'd wanted them to be friends, no demons or weapons or world-ending battles looming forcing them to cooperate - just friends. Amicable. Sam could remember it like the memories were his own. Maybe they were.

_"I don't want to be alone, Samael. Help me."_

His watch beeped. Sam checked the time and saw the numerals 17:50 glowing up at him. Ten to six, which meant ten to twelve back in the place where twelve meant half the world would die. He sighed and finished the coffee, leaving the dregs to dry in a brown ring at the bottom of the cup.

When you have a date with destruction, it's best to make a good impression by showing up early.

He took the mug back to the counter and tipped the woman behind it twenty euros, receiving a "Merci, Monsieur" for his trouble and a napkin with a number on it.

He recognised it from the advert outside as a national suicide hotline. Sam frowned - evidently he looked as bad as he felt.

The coffee hadn't worked on him, but there were stronger things than coffee in his world and Sam's mind was  _wired_. Raw, thick energy flowed through him like treacle being forced down a high pressure pipe.The colour dial on the world was set to maximum, and ghosting shadows moved seconds before their owners, ripples from the future distorting the time stream.

He may have overdone it this time. Especially as even a large black of the strongest blend in France hadn't quite ridden him of the taste of metal in his mouth.

With a sigh he spread his wings and flew, just able to perceive shocked yells from the other patrons of the cafe before he was far away from them, surrounded by gravestones, startling crows into flight.

  
* * *

Michael, as usual, was exactly on time.

He arrived without fanfare at six seconds past seven minutes past twelve, the time marking high noon at this place and human timezones be damned. As expected, the face he was wearing was Dean's. Sam was perched on the grave of a forty-eight year old man, his corpse rotted under the soil until barely bones were left. The headstone was withered and the writing on it almost obscured.

"Hello, brother."

Michael nodded in reply. "It has been a while."

"It has. Two thousand years for you; more for me. Do you know what it's like down there? There's no fire, flames, pain. There's no _anything_. There's  _nothing_. Your own mind drives the torture, pressing you to the edge of sanity and beyond."

"You chose to separate yourself from our Father, Lucifer."

"Don't call me Lucifer."

"It's your  _name_  now." Michael scowled, the expression foreign on what had once been Dean's body. "Don't you understand? Accept your punishment, and repent. Our Father is all-merciful and he  _will_  forgive."

"You know I refuse to accept a punishment when I committed no crime. Dad overreacted; so what? Go ask him again after two thousand years of cooldown time and see if he's changed his oh-so-unchanging mind." Sam folded his arms. "Oh wait. You can't, can you? You don't know where he is."

"Do you?"

"No. But he's not here, watching his two oldest creations about to fight to the death, so I'm willing to bet he doesn't care any more. There are more interesting things for an omnipotent being to do."

"He  _loves_  us."

"He did. First it was us, his sons. Then it was the leviathans. Then the rest of the angels, then the humans. Who knows what he's moved on to now? Accept it, brother. Dad's not some infallible being we can follow blindly and expect constant supervision from."

"You have no faith."

"Never did." Sam let his blade shimmer into his hand: he probably wouldn't be using it - this battle wouldn't be fought on the physical plane - but it was comforting to have some reminder of what he was about to do. Michael did the same.

"That's your weakness, Lucifer. You think free will means you  _have_  to disobey or you're not using it. To commit such abominable crimes just to be different from the rest is… despicable."

"So I killed a few humans. And? They die every day. They torture each other far more than I have ever tortured them. In the grand scale of things, a thousand or a million is nothing. I don't see how that makes me so evil."

"Because they  _don't know better_ , Lucifer, and you-"

Grace sparked briefly through the air, and Michael cut off abruptly. Sam looked around; it wasn't coming from either of them, so…

"You ordered the Host to stay out of our way, right?"

"I-"

Then an angel materialised out of thin air, weapon grasped firmly in hand, rushing towards Michael with a desperate look on its face.

  
* * *

Castiel didn't stand a chance. He was a Seraphim and a warrior skilled in battle, but against a fully powered archangel that strength was next to meaningless. Michael swatted him away without even moving, and the blue-feathered quill he was holding flew right out of his hand.

"You're the one I sent to guard Dean." Michael said in wonder as recognition crossed his face. "How were you able to get here? I ordered everyone to keep away."

"I don't take orders from  _you_ , now  _give him-_ " Castiel lunged again, weaponless this time, and Michael let him get close in before throwing out a hand and forcing him to his knees with a single gesture.

"How odd. I'd never even guessed my most trusted informant was a double agent. You did this, I presume?" Michael asked, directing his attention to Sam. "Someone must have started him off. You or his vessel… James Novak."

"It was me."

"Then your taint spreads further than I'd expected. Castiel, not only have you abandoned your post, but you have disobeyed a direct order. You know what the punishment must be."

"No!" Castiel was struggling, desperately, against the bonds that were tying him down. His head twisted around and his eyes met Sam's.  _"Help me."_   was projected, silently, his way.

Sam responded with a minute shake of the head. It wasn't worth it, not with every bit of energy possibly the difference between winning this battle and losing it. But he watched, and he saw the very moment when the brief hope in Castiel's eyes flickered out to abject despair. He shoved the part of him that was trying to sympathise to the back of his mind to deal with later.

"Castiel, Angel of Thursday," Michael began, his voice imbued with the authority of having done this many times before, "I hereby dismiss you from my service and strip you of your title, rank, and power. You are no longer fit to be an angel."

Castiel screamed something wordless and collapsed, no longer held up by Michael's spell and no longer able to stand. He curled himself up and sobs racked through him, tears suddenly pouring down his face. Sam couldn't take it any more, and looked away.

"Are you done?" He asked, eyes settling on Michael instead as he let power shine through them. "I was under the impression we had business to take care of."

"Sorry, brother. These distractions aren't- hold up, are you  _still_  trying to-"

Castiel had begun to crawl over the grass, towards the place where the feathered pen had landed. Michael kicked him over and he whimpered, letting the archangel stride across and pick up the weapon. "What is this? It doesn't do anything."

"Give it back."

"Disobey me one more time and I will kill your vessel and strip your name from you. Now tell me what this is."

"Never." came the whispered reply. Castiel was still defiant, even with a bruise swelling across his chest and eyes puffy with tears.

"Cas," Sam called out the battlefield, "It's not worth it. Don't let him take your name."

"This is none of your business, Lucifer."

"Oh, in fact, I was under the impression it  _was_. We have a date with destiny, and you're stalling with some ridiculous punishment of an angel turned human who is no threat to either of us. I'm getting impatient." Sam replied smoothly, before sending a message Castiel's way in the hope that he would pick it up.  _"I know what you're trying to do. I'll help as best I can."_

By the way Castiel's shaking stopped and he fell silent, he had heard.

"Fine." Michael let the quill disperse into the air, back to his soul room for storage  _which was exactly where it needed to go_ , and readied his sword. "I'll work it out later, once I've dealt with you. Shall we fight?"

"Yes."

Then Sam disappeared.

  
* * *

It was nothing like fighting Gabriel had been. That was flashy and showy and physical, summoning storms and lightning just for the sake of a good old-fashioned spar. Most importantly, neither of them had been trying to kill the other, only to fight them to a standstill or run them out of energy.

This was silent, still, and deadly. Surrenders might be accepted, if either of them would be willing to give one. Sam knew they wouldn't.

Michael had abandoned his physical body and Sam had done the same, preferring to fight this out somewhere more personal than on that plane of reality. They were both sparks of white in a never-ending colourless void, cautiously approaching each other, each trying to catch the other off guard but neither able to.

They were evenly matched. Michael was stronger, with the power of the Host giving him an almost unlimited supply of Grace. But Sam was smarter: brightest of the angels for a good reason, and if Dean was still holding out in there then he had the advantage of his vessel's total cooperation and the ease of movement that came with that. They lived and breathed as one, two minds joined in fortitude far more effective than Michael's constant pressure to keep his vessel locked away.

But still, Michael would be unmatched in raw power and there was nothing Sam could possibly do to counter that.

They attacked at the same time, hitting at speed and souls colliding, and Sam let himself materialise inside his brother's mind. He lost half a precious second taking in the surroundings, a well-kept garden with a stream that led to nowhere and a sense of peace about it that was utterly different to the endless sky of his own. He could feel Michael winging his way through it, searching for the weak point he wasn't going to find, and meanwhile Sam had seen the quill lying on top of the sundial.

He picked it up and cast his senses out for Dean, but of course they wouldn't work here.

"Give it to me."

Sam spun around, and there was his brother ten paces away standing on the pebbles of the river bank, hand outstretched.

"I know you're not Sam, and I hate you, but this is important. Give it to me and I can stop all of this."

"Did Michael let you out?" If he had, they were cooperating. But Dean shook his head.

"I broke out. Busted the rope." He held up a manacled wrist with the remains of a gold chain still attached.

Sam frowned. That wasn't supposed to happen. That  _couldn't_  happen. For a human to go up against the mental might of an archangel and win… it hadn't been done before. Which meant either Dean was the first and probably the last to ever manage it, or this was a trick set by Michael to lure him into a position where he could be taken out.

Just like Gabriel had done.

It was too risky. He couldn't use his mind to check: Michael set the rules here, even as Sam's connection to his own soul told him how his brother was quickly and methodically destroying everything in his path back home. But he wouldn't find Sam; Sam was here, and Dean was here, and that meant he had the advantage.

To kill an angel's vessel like this would cripple them, causing them so much pain that they would be physically unable to fight. That's what he had to do. Shove the part of him that had once been human, that was screaming at him to stop even considering this, in a locked box: and kill his brother and his brother's vessel.

"I'm not sure if you can still hear me, Sam." Dean stepped forward one pace, "But I really hope you're listening. Fight back like I did. Snap out of it. Give the pen to me and we'll save everyone."

Sam stared him down straight in the eyes, green meeting the gaze of luminous blue, and he decided.

After all, there was only one thing he  _could_  do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2324672/chapters/5351492 if you want Sam to listen to Dean.
> 
> Keep on reading if you don't.


	16. Chapter 16

He gathered his Grace, called his sword to his side, and shot forward in a burst of light. Dean didn't stand a chance against him: what would a puny human do against his might? With a quickly cut-off scream, he was gone. The shock of death radiated out from where Dean had once stood, grass browning and plants wilting. Sam felt Michael's pain even from this distance.

There was only one thing he could have done. Anything else was far too risky to gamble with for this battle's outcome.

With a whisper of wind, Sam let himself fly away, to meet his brother for the final confrontation in his own mind.

He landed on top of the brick walled, tile-roofed house that had been the human part of him, noting that extensive damage had been done to the structure. But that didn't matter: it was barely even his now, and he could always repair it.

Above Sam stretched a void of the deepest blue the sky could go, and below him an endless expanse of white. Michael was here, he could tell, and every one of his senses was telling him exactly where. This was his soul. He had the advantage.

"Brother!" he called out across the winds.

If they fought here, Sam having the home field and Michael already wounded, he would win without even trying. They both knew this.

_"Meet me back in Creation, Lucifer."_

Sam felt the alien presence wink out, and followed.

  
* * *

Back to Stull Cemetary. It had been several minutes; time moved at different rates in different realms, and as Michael had such a connection to Heaven it made sense that it would pass faster in his soul. Castiel was still on the ground, but he turned his head in shock as their bodies became animate again.

"Did you-?"

"Sorry." Sam held up the quill and threw it in his direction. "Dean's dead. The reapers will take his soul once we're finished here."

He didn't look at Castiel again.

Michael was clearly having trouble forcing his Grace to stay inside his body, with no human soul to buffer the way. His eyes were blazing out of control with light and his skin was beginning to shine. Any human gazing upon him would find themselves blind.

Sam wasn't human.

_"I didn't think you'd do it… I thought you'd stop…"_

"You tried to kill Sam. Why would you think I wouldn't do the same?"

_"Where is he?"_

"Sam? He's with me." Sam smiled. "We're together now."

Guilt and anger washed up along with a  _how could you do this I thought we were friends_ , but Sam brushed it off easily. The human part was just having trouble integrating, that was all.

 _"Now you want to kill me, don't you, Lucifer?"_  Michael couldn't use Dean's vocal chords, and was relying on mind-speech.  _"You've won. So take your reward."_

"I have no quarrel with you. You're just following orders like you always did. No, I want to talk to our Dad."

_"He-"_

"He's omniscient. Of  _course_  he's watching us. Aren't you?!" Sam looked up at the sky. "But no, not going to let me bait you out. Just watch from the shadows and act like we're being ignored. Well, Father, then I'll do something you can't ignore."

He held his hand out and focused, eyes closing in concentration, Grace swirling about him as a tiny dot of black appeared in his palm. He heard Michael's mental gasp and Castiel's physical one.

"It's exactly what you think. A tear in reality. Not even to Heaven or Hell or Purgatory: this leads to the Void." Sam opened his eyes. "Where I was imprisoned."

_"How long-"_

"Since just now. Or a few days ago; I couldn't have done this without my true vessel. Brother, I need you to help me. We need to expand it."

_"You're insane."_

"You're the one with the power. I can't do much more than hold this open. But  _think_ , Michael. This will force Dad to step in. If we threaten the whole of the planet he won't let them be lost."

_"Lucifer-"_

"My  _name_ , please."

_"Samael, you have to stop this. Close it. I can forgive you for anything else, but not-"_

"If he lets the humans die then he doesn't love them enough to save them, in which case there's nothing to forgive. Just cleaning up the mess." Sam stepped forward, advancing steadily on Michael who was somehow still managing to stand even though his vessel was beginning to disintegrate around him. "You have to trust me."

_"No."_

"Trust me. And for once in your life, Michael, think for  _yourself_."

He stretched out his other hand, causing Michael to snap his eyes away from the brief glimpse of the Void and eye it with horror.

_"This is blasphemy. I shouldn't-"_

He took Sam's hand, met his gaze with blazing green eyes, and let near-infinite power wash through the link.

  
* * *

They had been the first. Gabriel and Raphael had come after; back when the Leviathans had been locked safely away and those remaining on earth destroyed in a hail of meteors and fire and smoke. The humans even later. Back then Michael was the good son, acting as God when He was away tending to other things, following orders: Samael was the tester, the tempter, the literal Devil's Advocate who pointed out the flaws Michael couldn't see and mercilessly exploited them. Their fights would have been legendary if there was anyone to write the legend. They both only survived the other's wrath because God had told both of them to keep each other alive, that there could not be dark without light or creation without destruction.

(Eventually, they had settled from mortal enemies to friends to brothers, and then when Samael had flown to Michael and told him _humanity_  was the problem that had all been lost.)

Individually, they were the two most powerful forces in Creation, not counting their Father or Death who preferred not to interfere in the fate of the world. The only reason anything else had been able to survive was due to their tenuous friendship and each constantly keeping the other in check.

Working together… nothing stood a chance.

The graveyard at Stull was gone in a microsecond, their bodies vaporizing in the center of the blast and Castiel, unable to get away, being swept up too. The area covered by the Void spread outwards in a perfect sphere, killing every life form it touched. In a second the world was destroyed.

Four minutes later, the sun went out.

Michael had reduced himself to little more than an energy source, Sam directing the flow. He navigated them through the haze of souls, all terrified and confused, the Reapers unable to deal with so many at once. But right in the center, he could see something he recognised from long, long ago. Hanging motionless in the black sky was a tiny speck of yellowish-white that was patiently waiting for them.

He flew at top speed, an irresistible force heading straight for an immovable object.

They hit.

**_"Goodbye, children."_ **

And then God left them there, the star of His presence winking out as He grasped the edges of the rip and sealed it back together, with six billion souls and an infinity of darkness inside.

  
* * *

For what could have been an eternity of time there was silence, complete noncomprehension of what had just happened. The Void lay still and a galaxy of starry souls twinkled all around them.

Then Michael attacked.

He sharpened his awareness into bladepoint and stabbed for Sam's soul. Sam was forced to dodge, then forced to counter, shock still filtering through to his mind.

 _"You monster!"_  His brother screamed at him.  _"I trusted you!"_

_"I didn't-"_

_"I hate you!"_

It became more incoherent from there, words dissolving into raw emotion and anger slamming through their link. Sam didn't know how long they fought, but it was pointless - they couldn't die, not here, and any pain they allowed themselves to feel was entirely self-inflicted. Then-

_"Cut it out!"_

They were dragged back into some semblance of a physical reality and thrown apart at blinding speed, both skidding away from each other over a sandy wasteland with a fake sun beating down from high above. Between them materialised a very familiar figure, planting himself firmly in the way of their fight. "Stop it already!"

It was Michael who spoke up first, dumbfounded. "Gabriel?"

"That's me." With a mock salute, Gabriel clicked his fingers and they all found themselves sitting on chairs around a circular table - Michael and Sam both bound in chains. It wouldn't stop either of them but it got the point across. "While you're having your scrap, we have billions of humans with no clue why everything just went dark, so save it until we can work out how to fix this."

"You were on Earth?"

"Of course I was on Earth, you doofus. You think I was going to skulk around in Heaven right under your nose or suffer the indignity of watching demons chew on people? I want to know where the Hell Dad sent us."

"We're in my Cage."

Gabriel screwed up his nose. "Explains the smell. So, which one of you was it that got us exiled here?"

Michael pointed, the chains twisting and snapping. "Him."

"Bzzzt! Wrong answer! It was  _both_  of you with your stupid petty feud and your complete disregard for humanity. Way to be self-centered. I'm surprised Dad even let us keep existing. First thing's first: Luci, you managed to sneak out before. How I have no idea, but can you do it again?"

"The Cage has been resealed. I was only able to do it before because one seal had been broken." Sam said. "But I can still open another rip."

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

"I'm… trying." He frowned. "It's not working."

"Dad probably fixed it so you couldn't?" Gabriel offered helpfully.

"No, it's like there's something missing. Like-"

_"Like me."_

Sam turned around at the sound of his own voice and saw another copy of himself, translucent yet defiantly hanging on to a physical form.

_"How could you do this, Lucifer? I thought we were friends."_

"Sam?" The human Sam? He still existed separately?

"Well, isn't  _this_  a turn-up for the books." Gabriel grinned, and with a click of his fingers a bag of popcorn appeared in his lap. "Big brother has some explaining to do, doesn't he?"

In answer to that Sam kicked the other archangel halfway across reality and flew off to a dark corner of nowhere with what remained of his vessel, to get some privacy.

"When did you split off?"

_"When you destroyed the world."_

"Why did you do it?"

_"Why did you destroy the world?"_

Touché. Glancing around at the souls hovering around them, Sam tried to think of-

_"No. Don't."_

"Do what?"

_"Don't call yourself Sam. That's my name, not yours."_

"We've been through this, Sam, it's-"

 _"Not any more. Michael took it away from you and with what you've just done you_ deserve _not to have it."_

"Fine."  _Lucifer_  tried to think of a way to explain this. "I was calling a bluff, and our Father let it be called."

_"Then why did you kill Dean?"_

"There wasn't any other option."

_"Yes there was. He had a plan."_

"He would have betrayed us!"

_"He's my brother, and brothers don't betray!"_

"You  _know_  that's not true. You remember it."

Sam went quiet. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"Sam, how much do you remember?"

_"…Not much. I can't access your memories any more."_

"Then we shouldn't be having this conversation. Come on, let's get you somewhere warmer." Without the protection that came from being joined to an angel, the Void could do terrible damage.

He let grass materialise under their feet, and the looming building of Singer Salvage yard form somewhere behind him. The sun shone weakly in the wintry sky, and Sam's body finally became solid as Lucifer lent his strength to help.

"There you are!" Gabriel, empty popcorn bag in hand, strolled cheerily towards them over the tarmac. "You sorted your squabbles? No? Well tough, because you need to suck it up and work together to get us back."

"No." Sam folded his arms. "I refuse."

"I'm sure we can work around that. You want to wipe his mind or should I, Luci?"

Gabriel raised a hand and his fingers began to shine, but Lucifer cut that off with a gesture. "No."

"Fine, he's your vessel. You do it."

"No. Sam's memories are not going to be modified unless he  _consents_  to it." Lucifer clarified, and Sam shot him a grateful glance back before realising he was supposed to be angry at him right now.

"Oh yeah, I remember that. Talk him around then, will you? We can't wait too long or all these souls will tarnish and then we'll just have six billion demons to deal with."

"We don't need to go back. We have everything we need right here, Gabriel. Think about it - what is left for us back in Creation? Heaven? Neither of us have been there in thousands of years. Hell?"

"No thanks."

"So we should stay. Rebuild everything exactly the way it was before it was destroyed. We can both manipulate realities, and Michael - where is he?"

"Sulking in a corner somewhere," Gabriel answered, "But I think I could talk him around. We'd have to fix dying, though, since Reapers can't make it here and I don't see Death visiting any time soon. Maybe some sort of reincarnation? Eh, we'll find something. I like the idea though; you stay here and I'll see what I can do about big brother."

He vanished.

Lucifer turned to Sam. "If this goes ahead, I'll have to make sure you don't remember anything of this."

"Oh, so the whole no memory wipe was just  _talk_." Sam replied, "I should have known."

"No, you misunderstand - I won't if you don't want me to, but the world needs a Sam Winchester. If you don't go back, I'll fix it so everyone believes you died and you can stay here with me."

"What about Dean?"

"He'll believe you died too."

"He'll kill himself."

"You won't let him."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "So if I stay here, I can still talk to Dean?"

"No, but you can influence his actions. I'll reteach you how. I'll help you with everything."

"But that means we'll just end up merging again, after however long."

Lucifer considered it. "Probably."

"Then thanks, but no thanks. Never again." Sam shrugged. "I just want to be back with my brother at the moment. What if we took him, too?"

"Ask Michael about it. But it can be done, if you think it best."

"He'd hate me for the rest of eternity," Sam admitted. "So I guess that's it. I'll cooperate with whatever you have going. Woah, right now?" Lucifer had stepped forward and Sam had taken a corresponding backstep. "I don't get some downtime while you're setting up?"

"It would be best to do this as soon as possible." Lucifer's face softened. "I'll make sure you live a good life, Sam. You and Dean and Castiel and all your friends."

"Yeah, I know you will. I've got the devil watching over me." Sam folded his arms. "Alright. Make it quick, before I change my mind."

Lucifer walked towards him and Sam stood his ground this time, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Lucifer placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be scared."

 _"I'm not scared."_  came the answer through the link.  _"Just do it already."_

"Goodbye, Sam."

He pressed two fingers to is vessel's forehead, and pushed with his Grace. Lucifer wasn't sure what the parting whisper of thought that curled around his mind translated to, but he thought it might have been a  _"Good luck."_


	17. Chapter 17

The first sound that assaulted Sam's ears was the cawing of crows, muffled and distorted as if through a bad microphone. The sun shone weakly on his skin, cold earth pressed into hs face, and his body was just beginning to shiver in the wintry air.

He groaned and tried to sit up, but a headache assaulted the space behind his eyes.

"Sam, are you okay?" Somewhere above him. Dean's voice. Dean-

"Hey." he got out, weakly. "Are you okay?"

"I was asking about you, man. Looks like the spell did a number on you."

Warm hands helped Sam to his feet and he shielded his eyes against the too-bright light of early afternoon. From what he could barely make out, they were still in the graveyard.

"Dean, I think I'm-" He checked. Even blinking, the blurriness in his vision wasn't clearing. "I think I'm half-blind."

"Really? How many fingers am I holding up?" Dean splayed out a hand.

"Five."

"Nope, eight." He removed his other hand from behind his back, showing an extra three. "At least the psychic stuff is gone, but your vision seems okay to me. What's the writing on that stone?" He pointed.

Sam checked. "Agatha Marlin, 1956-1995."

"Then you're fine."

"Really?" Sam looked around, his eyes finally adjusting. Everything off in the far distance was still so fuzzy. "No offense, and I'd never noticed before, but human eyesight is  _really_ bad."

Dean laughed. "Come on. Cas is just over here."

Cas was still out of it, but he was breathing deeply and had a coat laid out around him to keep him warm.

"So he's a human now too."

"I think so. What do you remember?"

Sam thought back, but thinking back made his head hurt more. "A load of.,. black. Darkness. Before that, some kind of garden?"

"Yeah. That was Michael. He locked me up in this cave under the river but I busted out, and since we're standing here and the world didn't end I guess you did too. Thanks. But I kind of meant before that."

"How?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm guessing Lucifer was there since Hell, and that's four months ago. It's December. Do you remember any of it, or did he keep you under?"

"No, I remember most of it." Sam replied, "Although, now that I think about it some things are a bit fuzzy. Like… who the Hell is Chuck Shurley?"

"Who?"

"He-" Sam cut off as Castiel began to stir, moaning softly in pain. "Cas, talk to us. C'mon."

"I… His throat sounded dry and scorched. "I can…" Castiel suddenly froze, tensing up and causing the both of them to look around for danger.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"My Grace, it's-"

"It's gone. Yeah, we know, buddy. Sorry I couldn't help."

"No." His voice was almost back to normal, and Castiel sat up, blinking around in awe. "My Grace is  _here_. It's back."

To demonstrate, he let his hand glow softly with light. Sam looked at Dean.

"You did this? You must have ordered Michael or something."

"No, wasn't me. The only order I gave to the both of them was lock up Heaven and jump in the Cage."

"But if it wasn't you, then-"

A sound came from behind them. "Isn't it obvious? Me."

Dean groaned, putting a hand to his temple. Sam checked behind him and saw Gabriel leaning casually against a tree, inspecting his nails with nonchalance.

"Why are you here?"

Gabriel looked up. "To congratulate you, of course. I didn't think this would work, but it did. So that's Castiel's reward present - his powers back, no strings attached."

"I-I don't understand." Castiel had gone from delight to confusion. "Why do I deserve this, and who are you?"

"You told Mike where to shove it and got Dean that weapon of his. Even if you  _hadn't_  ended up saving the world out of it, the look on his face when he realised his spy had turned traitor was so worth making you an angel again."

"You were watching?" Sam asked.

Gabriel grinned. "Hell yeah I was."

"Right. So maybe I'm not getting something here?" Dean said, annoyed, "But I wasn't aware a Trickster had the power to do that stuff, so if you'd kindly tell us who the  _Hell_  you actually-"

"Oooh." Gabriel cut him off and smirked, turning to Sam. "You never spilled the beans? I guess there wasn't really time. Right-O, Dean Winchester, I've got stuff to do and I'm busy for now but I'm sure I'll find a good moment for the big reveal. Sammy, don't tell him." Gabriel winked knowingly. "Dean, I'll see you in a couple of weeks."

He left and Dean groaned again.

"I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Pretty much." Sam agreed. "If it helps, he likes us too much to set you up with anything  _too_  dangerous. You'll survive. Probably."

"I don't suppose you'd just tell me now and spare me the agony?"

"I think my throat would lock up." Sam tried, experimentally, and yes - he couldn't say Gabriel's name. As a human, he had no power left to counter the spell.

"Fine, but tell me one thing: yes or no question. Is he God?"

"What?"

"Is the Trickster just God with an obsession about screwing up our lives? Because it would explain  _everything_."

Sam shook his head. "I don't-" He broke off. "Actually, I'm not even sure."

It wasn't like he'd ever know.

Dean helped Castiel to his feet. "You have enough juice to zap us back to Bobby's? I could really use a beer."

Castiel nodded and reached out both his hands.

  
* * *

Bobby was waiting for them just outside his door, meaning they startled him from behind when Castiel landed them inside the house.

"You boys," He said, lowering the shotgun when he saw it was them, "Have got some explaining to do. Especially you, Sam. What was that you told me this morning? Lock myself up? What's going on?"

"It wasn't him, Bobby." Dean explained. "Whatever Sam did, he doesn't get blamed for it. That's how this is going to work."

"Oh, I'm not  _blaming_  anyone, I just want to know what you did. See, there's this thing on the news - happened all over the world. Everyone blacked out, just for ten seconds or so. They're calling today the day things went dark - people are saying it's the beginning of the end. I'm guessing you two had something to do with it."

"Lucifer. Lucifer, and Michael, and angels, and demons and probably a thousand other things I've forgotten but it's fine," Dean sighed, "It's over."

"Sounds like you boys could use a beer."

"Yeah, I could go for that." He turned around. "Sam, you coming with us?"

"I'm good without." Sam stared out the window. It was one of those hazy afternoons that made you want to curl up and sleep in the sunlight. "Too tired. Can't even  _remember_  when I last slept. I think I'll take a nap."

"You do that. I'll wake you up if anything happens, but I think it's over.  _Cas_ , you don't get an out this time. You're coming with me, and we're going to get you drunk like I promised." The look on Cas's face was a priceless cross between curiosity and deer-in-the-headlights.

"But-"

"No more excuses. Just be glad I changed my mind on the strippers." Dean countered. Cas gulped, and that made him laugh. "You'll be fine, it's only  _beer_. I bet angels don't even get hangovers."

He dragged Cas out into the yard so Sam could get his beauty sleep, but the angel still seemed strangely sad.

"What is it?"

"I can't hear them any more." Cas stared up at the sky. "I know you only locked them away, that they still live, but everything is silent. I'm alone."

"What, no other angel was down here when we sealed up the place?"

Cas shook his head. "We were under orders to ascend so that Michael and Lucifer could fight in peace. There are… whispers… I think a few may be here and hiding from me, but still it's so empty…"

"That sucks." Dean offered helpfully. "I'm sorry for taking your family away, man. If you-"

"It does not matter. The only means of reversing this was destroyed, and even if you could I would not endanger humanity with my siblings' wrath just for the sake of a blood tie. I have made my choice, and I do not regret it. Besides," Cas shot Dean a hopeful smile, "I have family on Earth now."

"Yup, you do. Me and Sam. We could damn well use an angel on our side when hunting, so what do you say about tagging along?"

"I would like that."

  
* * *

Sam hadn't lied about going to sleep, but for whatever reason - the lingering stress of the day or the myriad remains of all the stimulants in his blood from caffeine to… worse things - he found himself unable to doze off. But the cushion he had found himself was warm and comfortable in the heat from the radiator and the weak winter sun, so he let himself drift there in a haze between waking and sleeping.

Eventually, he found himself in his soul room.

Sam recognised it immediately, even though things had changed; the lights were off, there was no window, and the door had somehow disappeared. How he was able to see in what by all means should be total blackness was a mystery that defied the laws of physics, but the place was lit by some ambient lighting that kept it around that of a room with the curtains open on a cloudy day.

It was also smaller than he'd remembered, the walls were a pristine white with neither cracks nor drawings, and when he pulled his laptop off the shelf the thing had no signal. There was something missing from the place that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Sam hadn't been sure he'd even be able to get here, since he hadn't ever been before Lucifer and for all he knew it could have been an angel thing. Yet here he was, unable to access the Grace he'd become so used to having at his fingertips, yet still connected to his own soul.

He wondered what Dean's looked like.

The bookshelves were still full and he scanned them at random, eyes catching on one series tucked away on the bottom shelf.

 _Supernatural_ , by Carver Edlund.

Every book was here, the spines lining up to display pictures of Devil's Traps drawn along them, even though Sam was sure he'd only ever read one of the books. He picked out  _Mystery Spot_  just to check and yes, the opening lines were the same as he remembered. Thirty-one books, covering from when Dean had visited him at Stanford to the day when he was dragged to Hell seven months ago.

No… thirty-two. There were thirty-two books, the last one sitting on the bottom right of the shelf and tucked away. Its cover had the same spine design as the others, but when Sam pulled it ot he saw that the cover was black. No design, no title, just black.

He opened it.

Inside there was more writing, picking up where the last one had ended, only huge sections were blanked out - sometimes a paragraph here and there leading to a large break in the middle of the page, sometimes a whole scene or chapter. The parts left were the parts Sam could remember.

He glanced back at the line of books, thoughtfully. Were they here because…? They must be. They were here because their stories were important to him, even if he'd never read them. Just a manifestation of his memories.

Suddenly seized by an urge, Sam flipped right to the back of the book. It was empty. Of course it wouldn't tell him the future - but it had been worth trying. Turning the pages individually, he looked for the part where the last writing ended.

He saw it…

And threw the book away onto the carpet, a huge bout of nausea claiming him as vomit rose in the back of his throat. Sam tried to calm himself, closing his eyes, and forced himself to swallow.

He'd been reading about himself… Reading about himself… Reading about-

No. Don't think about it. It would only make his head feel dizzy. But his story was still being written, even if they'd already saved the world. That was nice to know.

Sam stowed the books back on the shelf and looked around one last time. There wasn't much left for him here, just a sense of loneliness that was making him depressed. Time to go back to the real world.

  
* * *

He woke up, and the sun outside the window had been replaced by stars with frost beginning to curl around the edges of the glass. He'd finally managed to fall asleep.

Sam needed a toothbrush, and a shower, and food, and some water to gulp down that might make the last vestiges of his headache go away. With a yawn, he rolled into a crouch on the floor and padded off to look for his stuff. It had been in the car the last time he'd seen it, but Dean might have brought it in.

…Or not, he concluded after a brief search of the hallway. Sam fixed himself a glass of water and drank the whole thing in twenty seconds, before pulling his clothing tight around himself and stepping out the front door into the chilly night air. His breath billowed in a cloud away from his face, and the crunch of his shoes on the icy gravel was almost like walking through snow.

He found Dean cross-legged on the bonnet of the Impala, watching him approach with a can of beer in hand and an unreadable expression.

"Hey." Sam said with a weak smile, and Dean smiled back.

"So you woke up?" He patted the space next to him and Sam sat down, the metal biting cold into his legs.

"Yeah. Why did you let me sleep on so long?"

"You looked like you needed it." Dean took a swig of beer and stared up at the sky. "Nice night out. You got the time on you?"

Sam checked his watch. "Three forty." That late. He'd been asleep nearly twelve hours. "How long have you been out here?"

"Since about seven. Just thinking." Dean let out a huff of cloudy air and watched it rise into the sky.

"You've been here all night? You're going to catch a cold." Sam was already beginning to shiver - a reaction he hadn't had in months - and he'd been out here ten minutes at most. "If you want to stay outside, build yourself a fire or something."

"Nah. No marshmallows; no point." Dean yawned. "Hey, remember when we-"

"Yeah." It had to be six or seven years by now. They had taken off to some field and made smores. Way back, before Sam had even quit for Stanford, back when things were easy and Dad was still alive.

"We should do it again sometime. I've still got a bit of the holy oil in the trunk. Wonder what marshmallows would taste like cooked in those flames? I bet they'd be heavenly."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Go to bed, Dean."

Dean hopped off the Impala, but stopped when he saw Sam made no move to follow. "You staying out here?"

"Just until morning."

"That's a long way away. Don't freeze yourself."

Sam huffed. "Like you can talk. Besides," He pointed up into the sky. "Venus is out. It's only a couple of hours before sunrise. What are we doing tomorrow?"

"Cas is hunting with us, and there's no demons any more. We'll pick something easy, maybe a werewolf. Haven't done one of those in a while. By the way," Dean turned, "There was one thing I wanted to ask you."

"Shoot."

"Do you regret it?"

"What?"

"Well, for a second back there I had pretty much  _limitless_  power." Dean said. "And all I did with it was put things back the way they were. I could have done so much more than that. I could have made the angels wipe out every single monster and they would have done it. But I didn't."

"Then what are you asking me for?"

"You had the same thing. I mean, I thought for a while you were lost to Lucifer. But at the last second you fought him. Ever wonder what it would be like if you hadn't?"

"…Yeah. I guess I kind of regret it." Sam shifted awkwardly. "But I think I'd have regretted it way more the other way around."

"You know what? I think I'm the same. Typical you." Dean grinned. "I spent the whole night moping over this and you sum up everything in just one sentence. Nerd."

"Well, what can I say? I'm the brains of the outfit."

"Goodnight, Sammy."

"Night."

Sam watched him go, waiting until the porch light clicked off before he was sure he was totally alone. He flopped out on the Impala's hood, swinging his knees up and over it - Heaven help him if Dean saw Sam's muddy trainers over his baby - and watched the stars. Maybe he'd adjusted to the night's cold, but it wasn't bothering him so much any more. His eyes found the bright light of Venus again. It must have just been his fallible human sight playing tricks on him, but for just a moment he could have sworn that the Morning Star was winking at him.

He didn't remember falling asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end. I'd like to thank my artist for being an awesome artist and my beta for being an awesome beta, and if anyone still with me wants to get involved in the Samifer Big Bang it's hosted at thesamifercommunity.tumblr.com , sign-ups beginning about April time.
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudo if you liked this fic. Just those few sentences can really brighten an author's day!


End file.
